


What They Trade Away

by goingbadly



Category: Hamilton - Fandom, Hamilton Broadway
Genre: (sort of), BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Prostitution, Reverse Harem basically, Seriously Dubious Consent, Shibari, Threesome - M/M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, multiple person power dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:36:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ABANDONED. SEE LAST CHAPTER. Aaron Burr runs in to Alexander Hamilton on a New York City street and they have a short conversation about Hamilton's plan to get his debt plan through Congress. It'd be nothing - only the way Hamilton says, "Hate the sin love the sinner" sticks in Burr's throat. Three conversations later and Burr has some idea of what went on in the room where it happened: enough, at least, that he has to get the full truth from Hamilton. In the process, he discovered there may just be something in New York City worth fighting for. </p><p>A "Room Where it Happens" fic that's gotten seriously out of control. Jefferson, Washington, and Burr playing games of dominance and control, each ultimately seeking to end up with Hamilton in their possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- I changed the timing of the song from summer to winter because I do what I want.  
> -This is going to be /extremely filthy/ and I apologize for nothing  
> -The main ships in this are Burr/Hamilton and Jefferson/Hamilton, with Washington/Hamilton as a secondary thing.  
> -if you want to write your own ending I'll link them all in the last chapter (or any fanwork) because I'm sure as fuck not finishing it

1.

It starts when he sees Hamilton on the street, thick black hair drawn back from his face and his eyes hollowed and shadowed.

_Non-stop,_ he thinks. _And clearly in need of a break._

There are ink stains on Hamilton’s fingers and underneath the fine cut of his suit it’s clearly visible that Hamilton’s lost inches around his waist again. The bustling New York street doesn’t bother him; Hamilton doesn’t deign to notice anyone around him. A man carrying a heavy crate stomps past, missing Hamilton by inches, but Hamilton doesn’t even look up. Burr steps back out of the crowd into the shadow of a printer’s shop, letting the people flow between them as he watches Hamilton coming. There’s stubble on Hamilton’s chin, again. He’s forgotten to shave. His eyes are hollow, dull. Pointless frustration tightens in Burr’s chest, for a moment, but he breathes in – breathes out – lets it subside. The irritation is familiar: _Hamilton can’t take care of himself. Hamilton can’t balance anything. Hamilton has no idea what it means to be in control._

But pointless. _He wins anyways, Burr, let it go._

The wind brushes at the back of Burr’s neck, and Hamilton is at the curb. He trips over his feet, looking over his shoulder at nothing. Burr shifts himself, just slightly. A woman steps in front of him and Burr half-turns, sidling past her, taking a spot to the left of where he was standing. A casual observer might have said he didn’t move at all. _Burr was always in Hamilton’s path._

_Of course it was a mistake that they bumped into each other –_

But if it’s a subtle change, still, it’s an effective one. Rather than brushing past, Hamilton’s shoulder drives into Burr’s chest and Burr can hear all the breath leave Hamilton’s lungs at once, a startled puff. He smiles to himself as Hamilton startles, dragged out of his worried reverie, and steadies Hamilton with a hand on his shoulder. By the time Hamilton looks up Burr is already feeling a cool plastic smile slide into place on his face.

“Mister Secretary,” he says, lightly. He sees the spark of recognition in Hamilton’s eyes. It pays, to speak to Alexander Hamilton. If anyone can decipher the furious chaos of the New Congress, it’s him, and Burr is a firm believer in expert opinions. If usually he prefers them given at a human pace, he’ll take what he can get: Hamilton’s in his path today.

“Mister Burr –“ And there’s a flash of that wicked, tom-cat grin in Hamilton’s lean and hungry face – “Sir.”

An old joke – _we keep meeting._ Burr’s smile gets a little more genuine despite himself. The man’s charm really is irresistible: half of New York is nursing hangovers and sore hips because of it. Burr lets his hand drop from Alexander’s shoulder, tucks it in the pocket of his coat where the cold can’t get at it. “Did you hear the news about General Mercer?” he asks. Polite. Keeping the conversation very specific, so Alexander doesn’t have the chance to drag ideals into it.

He doesn’t know what makes him think of Mercer, in particular; maybe Hamilton just looks like he could use a distraction. Maybe he thinks Hamilton, of all people, will get the joke. _Mercer Street._

The tom-cat smile fades as Hamilton considers it, frowning. “No.”

“You know Clermont Street?” Burr prompts. He watches Hamilton closely. Behind those thick lashes he can see Hamilton’s brain stutter and whir into life – clockwork parts starting to tick together.

“Yeah,” Hamilton responds, carefully, wary of a trap. He knows Burr too well to be sure of himself.

That only makes Burr smile more, safe behind the mask of his face. The rest of the world might know Alexander Hamilton, decorated war vet, but to Burr he’ll always be Hamilton – bastard, orphan, fresh off the boat. _I’m **not stupid.**_ “They renamed it after him.”

“Sure.”

“So our dear General Mercer has secured his legacy after all.”

And there it is – the click of a lock into place. Hamilton’s eyes flash with wicked amusement, and he rocks back slightly on his heels. “Now _that_ seems like a lot less work than pushing bills through Congress,” he agrees. It wins Burr a laugh, too.

Hamilton’s laugh is a little too large and too sharp for him – it shows off his canines, stretches his cheeks rosy in the cold. The snow swirls around them, and Burr tucks his chin to his chest for a moment to share the joke.

In the silence a woman passes by, her chin in the air, and Hamilton’s eyes track her without really seeing – noting the shape of her bustle like it’s a matter of course. He does the same for a soldier crossing the street the other way; noting the tight nip of the man’s coat as he turns the corner away from the grocers. Burr’s startled from his memories of their first meeting by a tight curl of frustration in his gut again. Hamilton is – Hamilton always will be – a pig. He’s indiscriminate. Opportunistic. _Half New York and a full three quarters of the Revolutionary could tell stories of what that mouth can do –_

Burr has to remind himself for the hundredth time that it doesn’t _matter._ No matter how much Hamilton doesn’t deserve all the good books he falls in to, resenting him for it won’t get Burr ahead. _Focus,_ he tells himself, and changes the subject smoothly. “I heard you’re having difficulties with your financial plan,” he prompts, hoping to take Hamilton off guard and get an honest answer.

Maybe the comment about General Mercer was more disarming than he thought, because Hamilton looks quickly at his feet. His answer has the soft and mumbled quality of a confession – “Actually, I think I’m going to have to take your advice.” He can’t seem to meet Burr’s eyes; even as he looks up from the street he’s searching the skylines, watching the snow fall over the roofs.

A wary bell of suspicion rings in the back of Burr’s skull, and he feels his fingertips brush against his palm as his hands start to close. Hamilton, missing a step: genuinely vulnerable in the middle of the lacquered political dance. It’s not impossible, even for the best wit in the Union, but – Hamilton, listening to _Burr?_ Impossible. “Really?”

“Talk less,” Hamilton murmurs, talking more to himself than to Burr, “Smile more… Whatever it takes…”

Burr forces himself to relax, his mind sorting through the possibilities. He stares at Hamilton, and they stand in silence under the creaky awning of a public house while Hamilton’s eyes drift through the grey skies above them. There’s something about the shadow in Hamilton’s expression that makes Burr nervous. There was a comment Washington made during the war that comes back to Burr, suddenly; popping into his head uninvited. Something about having every man where he was needed most. Using talents. No, that wasn’t the word. What was it?

_If every man has a skillset, it is a commander’s job to find and utilize it –_

“Looks like snow,” Hamilton mumbles. His face is cold and empty. All of a sudden Burr misses that reckless grin, the gleeful abandon with which Hamilton fell into bed with half the revolutionary army. He takes a deep breath.

“Madison and Jefferson are merciless,” he hears himself say, meaning it as a warning. It’ll be difficult to break their alliance, even in the service of the Union.

“Well.” Hamilton coughs, finally breaking his own revere, glances down at his feet and back up to Burr. He even manages an approximation of his usual thoughtless smile. “Hate the sin, love the sinner.”

That has implications even Burr can’t miss. “ _Hamilton,_ ” he says, more sharply than he intends.

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” Hamilton pulls himself away, bony ribs curling around his empty stomach as his body recoils. Surely Schulyer money feeds him better than this. Surely he’s not eating himself out inside for anything else. “Decisions are happening over dinner.”

_Dinner._

Burr watches Hamilton walk away. _Why does that sound like a lie?_

2.

Washington looks up from his desk with mild interest when Burr steps inside and shuts the door. He’s under stress, too, but bearing it better than Hamilton is. If Burr wasn’t looking, he might miss the fine tight lines around Washington’s eyes, the furrow of concentration on his forehead.

“Mister Burr.”

“Mister President.” Burr brushes the snow from his coat before he responds, playing for time. It’s warm in Washington’s office; Burr can feel the snow steaming off his coat. The water from his shoes drips onto the expensive carpet. Burr’s head is a quiet whir of thoughts and possibilities. He’d thought as far as the office door; his plan from here is still sitting unformed in his head. Burr can feel the edges of it, the questions he wants to ask, but they haven’t coalesced yet.

Part of him is still wondering why he’s doing this, but there’s a hard cold curiosity sitting in his stomach that makes him feel anxious. Something about Hamilton’s eyes. Something about the way he’d said, _love the sinner._

“Can I help you, Burr?”

When Burr looks up Washington’s pen is posed delicately over a piece of parchment, angled slightly so the ink won’t drip. Burr is reminded forcibly by contrast of Hamilton’s legal desk in New York city. Hamilton’s office had been a study in chaos; parchments tumbling over each other in stacks to the bare boards of the floor. It froze in there in the winter, sweltered in the summer. Hamilton let ink spill and dry and flake and stain every piece of wood in the room, throwing his pens down carelessly when he jumped up on the thread of a new idea. He wore thin wool gloves to keep his palms warm and cracked his fingers, endlessly, to keep them from cramping.

Washington’s hands are capable, long-fingered, fine-boned. Capable hands, like a pianist’s or a surgeon’s. Burr thinks he might have liked Washington, in another walk of life. He admires the man’s control.

_And wasn’t that the fascinating thing? Wasn’t Washington the only man who could ever manage to control Hamilton?_

If Hamilton is thinking of doing something he doesn’t want to do, Washington is the only man who could force him to it. Burr straightens, remembering why he’d come, and looks Washington in the eye. The general’s eyes are a glittering black with a force in them like a physical thing, and they strike Burr so hard in the stomach that he almost turns around and goes right back out the door.

But he has to know.

“It’s about Hamilton’s debt plan.”

“Yes.”

“It got through Congress.”

“Yes.”

Burr hesitates. He swallows, feels the dry lump in his throat push against his Adam’s Apple. He has a vague sensation in his stomach like a lurch, like he knows the answers that are coming.

“How?” Burr asks.

And Washington sets down his pen. He says nothing. He folds his hands over his desk and waits for Burr to continue. Burr knows it’s reckless. He knows it’s thoughtless, stupid, foolish. He should turn around and walk out the door, but he can’t help it. The words roil and bubble and boil inside him, frothing out of his stomach through his mouth in an acidic, bitter-tasting rush.

“Madison and Jefferson walk into a room with Alexander Hamilton determined to stop his plan by all means necessary. Twelve hours later Hamilton has control of the banks. Madison and Jefferson take – what? A capital that we all know means nothing?” Washington makes no move to interrupt. He watches Burr, cool and collected, and for once it’s Burr that feels out of control. It makes him furious; embarrassment roiling and turning to rage in his stomach. He realizes his hands are shaking, and curls them into fists at his sides. He still hasn’t stepped away from the door. He knows what he looks like; practically trembling with an emotion he can’t explain, standing uninvited in Washington’s office asking about secrets of state. But he can’t stop talking.

_Is this what it feels like to be Hamilton?_

“How? How did he – “

“Burr.”

At the sound of Washington’s voice Burr falls instantly silent. He feels a hot flush start to rise in his cheeks, and fights it with desperate self-hatred. One word – _one word!_ – and Washington has him cowed.

_But that’s the nature of power,_ Burr thinks to himself wildly. He’s a player in the game in his own right, but Washington is on another level entirely. As Washington’s jaw sets and he finally stands, coming around his desk to lean on the edge and watch Burr, his presence is overwhelming. Washington assumes command of the room the same way he assumes command of armies. He doesn’t demand loyalty or obedience; he claims it, as surely and as absolutely as if there is no option but submission.

_As he claimed Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton, heedless and wayward and prideful –_

_They told stories about him during the war, the kind of stories men tell to keep themselves warm when things get cold. Alexander Hamilton with his wide wicked smile, curling under your hands like a cat, arching his back and laughing and goading you on, Alexander Hamilton always ready to cheerfully debase himself – luxuriating in it, glorying in it, wagering each man in a company that they could not outlast or out manoeuvre him –_

_One at a time or all **at once –**_

And Burr sees it, a glimpse of it, how it must have been. He saw it often enough in public: Washington’s firm right hand on the back of Hamilton’s neck, reminding Hamilton of his place. That relentless pride bowing in submission, tamed, collared –

Suddenly a thought slips into the side door of Burr’s mind, uninvited and unwanted. _If anyone could sell Hamilton to them, it would be Washington._ Vivid images splash through Burr’s head: horrible things, half-formed. Remembered from pamphlets about excess in Versailles or picked up around the campfire – soldier’s boasts about rope burn and the disgusting, stomach-churning stories of absolute ownership.

_No –_

Burr’s nostrils flare and he jerks his chin up.

“For your own sake,” Washington says, slowly, “I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened.” He folds his arms and his jacket creases over the hard muscles of his chest. Burr’s throat is tight again, but he doesn’t dare show it – not with Washington’s unrelenting eyes on him.

“But,” Washington adds, “If I balked at using my men’s talents for the good of this nation, I would not be capable of doing my job.” He pauses. Burr doesn’t think it’s just for effect – the fire crackles, the flame reflects in Washington’s eyes, and Burr has the distinct feeling that he’s being weighed.

Judged and found wanting.

“I hear you’re chasing a cabinet seat, Burr.” Washington’s jaw firms. “If you want to govern, you’d best remember it’s not for the squeamish.” Burr has nothing to say to that. “Shut the door on your way out,” Washington dismisses him.

The second time that’s happened.

 

3.

Jefferson, Burr finds at a public house. Where else?

Jefferson’s boots are on the table and one of his arms is thrown back on the chair beside him, his gaudy violet velvet suit on display for everyone to see. He’s lazy and self-satisfied, his curls falling in artful disarray over his broad shoulders. In the candlelight his skin is a smooth warm brown and his fingers are elegant on the wine-cup in his hand. He’s no soldier – there are no callouses there – but he’s a Southern gentleman, and there’s a strength and a condescending dominance in the way he commands the room’s attention.

When Burr comes in it’s on late to midnight and Jefferson’s cronies have mostly dispersed although there’s enough hanging around the table to make a minor crowd. Jefferson is holding court like the place belongs to him, distributing his attentions with regal indulgence. As the door swings shut, cutting out the night chill, he finishes a story and the table erupts in laughter. The bartender looks up – looks Burr over – and just as quickly dismisses him. Burr tries not to take it personally. There are enough empty cups on the table that the cellars are probably running dry, and Jefferson’s reputation promises that the house will have no need of other business tonight. Or for the rest of the week.

Still, Burr makes his way to the bar. Burr claims a stool. Burr orders a coffee, black, without sugar to sweeten it. He doesn’t need it, tonight. He doesn’t need whiskey, either, to make it burn. The coffee comes in a white chipped cup and Burr sets it to his lips, listening over his hunched shoulders as Jefferson lectures drolly to his audience.

“I just wanted to work a little closer to home,” he purrs, pitching his voice to carry, “But Washington’s Tom Cat insisted, so who was I – “ Laughter interrupts him, and Jefferson joins in. There’s a warped mirror above the bar and Burr watches in it as Jefferson throws his head back, laughing so hard it makes his chest shake and his teeth flash white.

Burr thinks of wolf fangs.

Jefferson chokes down his laughter long enough to continue – “Gentlemen, gentlemen. We all make sacrifices for our country. To the Union!”

“To the Revolution!”

The company drinks. Burr’s stomach churns, and he sets his coffee down.

“This financial plan is temporary – ” Jefferson starts up again.

“You didn’t drink, sir.”

Burr blinks, and looks up to find one of Jefferson’s coterie standing over him. “Sorry?”

“To the Union.”

Oh. “No.” Burr looks down at his coffee again. His face is reflected in the black surface. There’s something in it he doesn’t recognize; something hard and sharp and hungry. He looks, he supposes, a little bit like Hamilton. “I suppose I didn’t.”

“I’m afraid I have to insist you _do._ ”

Burr looks up again, more sharply this time, but it’s too late. The drunken man’s voice has carried, and Jefferson is looking over. “Is that Aaron Burr?”

Burr’s teeth grind together, setting flakes of bone into his mouth. If he’s going to confront Jefferson, he’d at like least to pick his own moment. _Too late for that now. Why does everything Hamilton’s involved in spin out of control?_ Reluctantly, Burr turns on his stool. The drunken man falls back, sensing something else in the air. They can all taste it. A change in the wind. Burr supposes he’s glad he left his pistols at home. “Secretary Jefferson. Sir.”

“Mister Burr.” A moment where Jefferson’s eyes flick over him – heavy-lidded and crawlingly intimate, for all they’re separated by the length of the bar. Burr feels his skin creep over his shoulders, and suppresses an urge to shift in his chair. Finally Jefferson smiles, his full lips curving around the shape of his teeth. _Fangs,_ Burr things, and hastily corrects himself.

“I didn’t expect to see you in here,” Jefferson smiles. “ _Very_ irresponsible of you, Mister Burr. Out drinking on a week night. What would Daddy say?”

_Washington._ Hatred simmers in Burr’s stomach. He smiles to hide it, knowing the expression is perfectly opaque. “I’ve just been to see him, in fact.” Jefferson’s eyes narrow. “We spoke about Hamilton’s financial plan,” Burr adds, forcing his voice even. “I hear you are the guiding force behind pushing it through Congress. My congratulations.” Somehow, with an effort, Burr manages to lift his coffee in a toast to Jefferson without spilling it on himself or throwing it on Jefferson’s ridiculous lace cravat.

There’s still the length of the bar separating them, but somehow it’s gotten smaller. Quieter. Underneath Jefferson’s drunken abandon there’s a great malicious intellect, and Burr feels it turning; the same way he can feel the restless creak and grind of Hamilton’s silver-edged wit.

“Hamilton was very convincing,” Jefferson allows finally. His audience chortles, catching the joke.

Burr’s spine stiffens, but all he lets himself say is, “I confess myself curious as to how he managed.”

“Quite good with his mouth,” Jefferson shoots back, without missing a beat. This time there’s more than scattered laughter. “Once you stop him talking.” That gets a louder laugh and before Burr knows it he’s snapping back – thinking of Alex with his hollow eyes and his lean hungry face –

“I wasn’t aware your votes were that cheap.”

The tenor in the room changes so suddenly that Burr might as well have fired a shot into Jefferson’s chest.

Jefferson says nothing, for a long moment. Tense stillness draws on longer and longer until it’s almost unbearable. Then, languidly, insolently, Jefferson lets his boots fall to the floor. He leans over, bracing himself with his elbows on his knees, his hands folded innocently in his lap. His dark eyes draw Burr’s gaze and hold it, inexorable. The ringlet curls of his hair frame his square jaw, his full lips, the sensuous curve of his eyes and his long lashes. An aristocratic face. A decadent face.

_Have I heard those rumors, too – did they tell those stories around the fire –_

_Of what Jefferson does, with those he takes – leaves them limp and wet and trembling –_

But those would not be the same, in character, of the rumors of Alexander. There would be no grinning, in Jefferson’s bed, no reckless glee, no bright and thoughtless laughter. Not for those he chose. It’s impossible to reconcile them. Burr realizes his shoulders are setting, ready for a blow, and forces himself consciously to relax. He can’t let Jefferson see.

“Alexander _begged_ me,” Jefferson says, slow and deliberate. “To assist him.” The pause between the two clauses cannot be unintentional. Burr feels like he’s sitting on a bed of nails, drawn up so tight and rigid he can barely move. The heat in his stomach spreads to his face, to his hands unsteady on the coffee cup. Still, he can’t look away.

“He had nowhere else to turn,” Jefferson claims. “I allowed him a chance.” Then, slowly, he lets himself smile. It’s theatrical. They’re all hanging on his every word, just the way Jefferson likes it. Burr is helpless to stop it. Jefferson reaches up and rubs a thumb over his bottom lip, catching at a bit of skin and leaving a gleaming bead of moisture on his fingerprint. He looks at it, for a moment, flicks it away onto the floor disdainfully. “I arranged the meeting and he did the rest. If the way he pleaded his case isn’t to your liking, Burr, Hamilton is not a maiden in need of defending. Believe _that._ ”

It’s too hot in the bar. Burr is suffocating. He stumbles to his feet, aware that Jefferson’s cronies are laughing at him, but too far gone to care.

Before the door shuts behind him, he hears Jefferson call – “Give Alex my best!” to fresh rounds of jeers from his pack of followers.

 

4.

The next door Burr doesn’t bother to knock at.

He barrels through at three in the morning, slamming it open and letting it bounce off the wall. Not very smart, he imagines – Eliza might be home, the children might be asleep. Burr’s inexperienced at causing stirs; he hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet.

He still doesn’t know why he’s doing this, only that it seems important. _Vital._

Burr has to know. It’s burning in him and he thinks that his lungs are turning to ash because he’s starting to be unable to breathe. Hamilton starts up from his desk, eyes wide, mouth opening in shock. His hair is hanging loose over his shoulders like a lion’s mane and his eyes are even more shadowed than they’d been a week ago when Burr ran into him on the street.

“Burr – “ he starts.

“Is it true?” Burr demands.

“Is what true?”

Burr can’t force the words out so he snarls, unable to catch the sound even as it slips through his teeth. He sees Alexander’s eyes widen and he thinks – although it might be a trick of the light – those black pupils blow outwards into his iris. Hamilton certainly stops rising. He hesitates, half out of his seat, and sinks back into it.

_Breathe,_ Burr reminds himself. He digs his nails into his palm and continues, with a bare approximation of restraint, “Is it true. What they’re saying.”

“I don’t know what they’re saying,” Hamilton pleads, spreading his hands. He’s got ink stains on his thumb. As the cuff of his sleeve slides downwards, just a fraction, Burr sees a thick red mark encircling Hamilton’s wrist. It could be nothing. It could be a trick of the light, a shadow, a place where Hamilton had rested himself against his desk.

Somehow, Burr knows it’s not. “Jefferson. Madison.” Hamilton’s face goes pale, and then hard, but he says nothing so Burr pushes relentlessly forward. “Your _dinner._ ”

Hamilton leans back in his chair and pushes his hair back out of his face with one hand. “I got what I wanted.”

“And Washington?” Burr demands, mercilessly.

“Washington had nothing to do with it.”

“So you just decided to follow in your mother’s footsteps of your own accord, is _that_ it.”

At that, Hamilton flinches. When he meets Burr’s eyes, his cheek is sunken on one side and Burr knows somehow – instinctively – that Hamilton is chewing the inside, giving himself pain to focus on. When he finally speaks, Hamilton’s voice is determined. Arrogant, even. “Excuse me for wanting to settle my legacy a little more securely than General Mercer did.” He stands, straightens his vest, and walks around Burr to shut the door that’s still hanging just slightly ajar. As he reaches up to draw it closed, his hands are steady.

The smell of him fills the room, spice and musk and spilled ink all intertwined together. He’s standing so close to Burr now that when he turns, putting them face to face, Burr can feel the heat of Hamilton’s body.

He must feel like fire, when you touch him. His skin must be as hot as the inside of another man’s heart. He has to lift his chin to look up into Burr’s face. There are scant inches between them, now. Hamilton’s expression is hard and his chest is rising and falling just a little too quick for whatever it is they’re doing.

_His office. The dead of the night. Burr, get a hold of yourself._

“I got what I wanted,” Hamilton says. Then, correcting himself fiercely, “I wanted what I got.” He steps a little closer, pushing into Burr’s personal space. His pupils _are_ blown, after all; wide and devouring. There’s a sensuous curve to his hips as he moves forward again. Chest to chest. The smell of Alexander Hamilton thick in Burr’s nose, the taste of his late-night sweat almost on Burr’s lips. _What are you doing?_

“You want to know what I did for the votes?”

_What are you **doing?**_

Burr should fall back. He should. He shouldn’t be feeling his own breath come quicker to his throat, his tongue struck dumb by Alexander’s flat challenge.

“I’d show you,” Hamilton spits the words venomously at Burr, inches from his face, his jaw tilted up so he can fit himself in as close as possible to Burr with the curve of his body matched against Burr’s rigid shock like puzzle pieces. The heat of his skin is incinerating them both, now, bright flames burning fast. “I’d show you, Burr, if you had _anything at all_ that I wanted.” Hatred snaps fierce and hot in his eyes as he snarls up at Burr, vicious and prideful. “Don’t act like you know what it’s like in my shoes, Burr. You don’t even know what you _want,_ let alone how to fight for it.”

He’s right.

He’s wrong.

Burr has no idea what he’s doing, but he just got some idea what he wants. Burr stares down at Hamilton, and when he breathes he can taste Hamilton’s exhale. _Is this what you gave to the Virginians? Is this what Washington asked you to trade away?_

Hamilton leans in, just a hair, solicitous as a lover. His gaze trails, slow and deliberate, down Burr’s face to his lips. Then his eyes close, Hamilton’s thick lashes drowning out the pupil and white. “The only thing I can’t figure out,” he whispers, against Burr’s lips, “Is who you’re jealous of. Are you mad that Washington thinks I _fuck_ better than you? That _I’m_ his best tool for the situation? Or are you just upset that it was _Jefferson_ who got to put me in my place?”

It’s not seduction. It’s not even meant to be. It’s _taunting._ Hamilton doesn’t want Burr to touch him and both of them know it. This is a point to be proven between them. This is a game, and Burr hates himself because he knows he’s losing. He can feel it, even as Hamilton steps back; the aching response of his body, the fierce and violent urge to slam Hamilton up against the door and _force_ him to admit what Burr knows is true.

_You didn’t **go.** Washington **sent** you._

_It was a coin and he paid them with it, you throw away your pride after all this time for what, for a financial plan, is that **all –**_

If a treacherous part of Burr whispers, _and what about his question? Who are you jealous of?_ He doesn’t let himself listen.

So Hamilton steps back, unmolested, and Burr shakes in impotent – something – but he doesn’t reach out.

“Now get the hell out of my house,” Hamilton says.

And Burr obeys.              

 

6.

Burr should do nothing. It’s over. It’s done. Whatever went on in that room, that night, with Hamilton and the Virginians – it’s over.

But it hangs with him. It simmers in his stomach. Hamilton can pretend nonchalance all he wants, but there was that unguarded moment outside the printer’s shop. Hamilton can boast – Burr knows by now that nothing in this world can stop Hamilton from boasting – but this time Burr knows better. It wasn’t Washington’s Tom Cat that went into that room, feral and eager and wild. It was Washington’s _dog._

Leashed and collared.

Burr sits in his office and turns a drink around and around in his hands. He could let it go. It might even be the wisest thing to do. He lifts the drink to his mouth, takes a sip, holding the whisky in his mouth. He considers it before he swallows; he could hold the secret for himself, and every time he saw them in Congress, he would know. He could blackmail Hamilton with it. He could blackmail Jefferson.

Better, he could tell the papers. There would be no competition for Burr, with Hamilton and Jefferson disgraced. It would level the field – leave it open for Burr – _“Talk less,” Hamilton murmurs, bright eyes dark, staring at his feet, “Smile more… Whatever it takes…”_

_Hamilton in 1776, hands on the table, open face displaying every emotion like they’re plastered on it. “If you stand for nothing, Burr, what will you fall for?” His tone is accusatory. He can’t understand what anyone could possibly have to lose._

Burr grimaces and sets his drink down. Damn Hamilton. Damn Jefferson, and damn Washington for using him.

“I hate the man,” he says, in the silence, addressing the portrait of his father over his desk. “He’s reckless. Arrogant. Foolhardy. He jumps at every gun.”

_He’s brilliant. Passionate. Articulate. He’s sharp and fascinating and furious like a hurricane._

If Alexander Hamilton is going to be ruined, he deserves to do it in a blaze of glory as bright and terrible and doomed as he is, not on his knees for Washington. Burr drains his drink. He stands, and straightens his coat. _If anyone’s going to master Alexander Hamilton, it will not be someone who can’t appreciate a tenth part of what he is._ Burr thinks of Jefferson, lazy and indolent, bragging about _Washington’s Tom Cat._ _It will certainly not be someone who can’t even understand what they’ve got under their hands._

Burr readies himself coolly, meticulously, planning everything even as he packs a small leather bag for the walk. The tumult in his head is gone, now. He is quiet and calm, knowing each move before it happens.

It has to be done right, after all. Carefully choreographed, carefully planned, attention paid to every detail. Burr is patient. Burr moves slow.

And when it is time to work, Burr is _flawless._

 

7.

When Hamilton comes home from Congress Burr is sitting in Hamilton’s office, going through Hamilton’s legal papers. He knows how he looks; the desk is a position of power, and the longer he waits to acknowledge Hamilton the more it underscores his own dominance. Burr took the idea from Washington – he can admit that much – but oh, Hamilton’s so eager to obey _Washington._ And Burr can use that. Burr can use anything, if it suits him.

Hamilton shuts the door behind him. “Mister Burr.”

“Sir,” Burr corrects. He looks up from the papers in front of him. “Tonight, Alexander, it’s _Sir._ ”

Hamilton licks his lips and the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. Too much to hope that Burr could take him by surprise – he’s already catching on. _Brilliant,_ Burr thinks, not for the first time. He’s conscious of a warm and condescending admiration. Hamilton _is_ brilliant; not that it will do him much good.

“And to what do I owe the honour, sir? Did you decide who you were jealous of after all?”

Burr doesn’t give Hamilton the satisfaction of a reaction. “I heard it said once you had a standing bet with the Virginia Company.”

“Sir.”

“What was the wording? Out manoeuvre, out plan?”

Hamilton’s smile is edging on wicked, now. He’s enjoying this. Burr can allow that, for the moment. “I believe it was, _Get me to cry mercy,_ Mister Burr. Sir. _”_

“I have different stakes in mind.”

“Oh?”

Deliberately Burr looks back down to the desk and flips over a paper, making Hamilton wait as he reads the next line. “Your wording is imprecise here. You’ll leave a loophole that might be exploited in future cases.” Burr watches out of the corner of his eye as Hamilton visibly bristles, then forces himself to relax as he realizes Burr’s succeeded in getting a rise out of him.

“I wasn’t aware this was a legal matter.”

“It’s not.” Burr finishes the paper – if he can’t really concentrate on the words, at least he makes a show of finishing the paper before he sets it aside. “I’m going to ask you what really happened with Jefferson and Madison. And you’re going to tell me.”

Hamilton’s mouth twitches again. “Do you think so?”

“Do you give me leave to question you?”

It makes Hamilton laugh – that too-large laugh. He throws his arms open, delighted, and Burr feels an answering warmth in his own chest. “You have me entirely at your disposal, Sir,” Hamilton proclaims, throwing the words down like a gauntlet between them. “For the entire night.”

Burr smiles. “I was hoping you would say that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please if you have enjoyed this leave a comment it means the world to me! And also - mind that dubcon warning.

8.

When the tie is done Burr steps back, letting Hamilton struggle for a moment to get a sense of it. The ropes around Hamilton’s wrists hold his arms fast behind him, thrown out to the sides at an angle that must be just short of uncomfortable. His knuckles stick hard against the small of his back. As Burr watches, Hamilton wiggles his fingers. When his hands move, the rope running up his spine to a double-hitch knot at the back of his neck quivers like a plucked string. Around his throat the black rope is stark, elegant against Hamilton’s tan skin. Burr smiles, appreciating it: he thought this through, after all. He knew the images he wanted to create.

Then Hamilton gasps, and Burr knows he’s figured out the rest.

“Yes,” Burr tells him, “You might want to keep your chin up.”

The other side of the harness slips down between his knees, around his cock, looped around his base and joined to the line around his throat. Burr’s been careful about the tension; the rope can’t possibly go slack. Hamilton is effectively forced to choose between pressure _there…_ and breathing.

Burr smiles, watching the realization dawn on Hamilton’s face. “It’ll do for a start,” he comments lightly, stepping back.

“I suppose struggling is just going to make it worse,” Hamilton responds, trying for nonchalance.

Burr smiles. “Yes.”

“Alright. Fine.” Hamilton pauses. Burr considers responding, but before he can get a chance Hamilton is off again, irritable, twisting his wrists against the ropes. “So you have me. Now – “

_Impatient._

Burr can fix that. He leans down and puts his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, pushing him forward. Hamilton’s spine curves. Tension gathers on the rope – down, between his legs, up his spine – and Hamilton gasps, his breath coming ragged as the rope starts to cut off his air.

“Talk less,” Burr tells him, smiling. The same advice, again. Hamilton might even get the joke. He lets the pressure go and Hamilton, naked and indomitable, straightens: tossing his hair out of his eyes. It must cost him. Burr sees the twitch in his shoulders as the rope quivers again.

“Of course you’d say that,” Hamilton complains.

“Of course,” Burr agrees, nonplussed. Hamilton can try to get a rise out of him; it’s not going to work. He can feel the cool sure rush of control through his mind. It’s like dancing: each step fluid and obvious before it happens. Even from the angle he’s standing at, Burr can tell that Hamilton’s cheeks are pink, his lips slightly parted as he breathes. Burr watches, marking the way Hamilton’s bare knees press against the hardwood floor. It’s going to get uncomfortable, soon. Burr can deal with that.

“Tell me –“ he asks, after a moment, “Did Jefferson start this way?” The rope burns around Hamilton’s wrists are unmistakeable. At some point, they must have tied him. “Or did that come later?”

“What do you want me to say? You tie a better knot than he does?”

“Not at all. I’m sure Jefferson is quite proficient. I’m sure you sung like a bird for him.”

Hamilton trembles at the sting to his pride, impotent rage making his hands clench. “If that’s how you want to put it,” he forces out finally, between his teeth.

Burr nearly laughs. Getting under Hamilton’s skin might just be the simplest task he’s ever undertaken. He pitches his voice low and smooth, a delicate chiding like he’s talking to a small child. “Isn’t that how it was? You’re too easy for him, Hamilton.”

“I was _not_ –“

Burr grinds his palm down into the hollow of Hamilton’s shoulder, and Hamilton can’t speak past his own gasping for air. Burr holds him, this time. A count of two. Three. Four. Letting Hamilton feel the bleak edge of asphyxiation until he can’t take it anymore and he starts to fight – throwing his head back desperately, curving his neck to take the pressure off. He makes a strangled sound as the rope tightens around his cock, the muscles in his thighs twitching, his body shuddering helplessly in the struggle for air.

Burr lets him up and Hamilton sags, gasping, head thrown back at awkward angle to let himself breathe. “Oh –“ his voice deep and hollow – “ _God._ ”

“You were saying, Mister Secretary?” Burr lets his voice edge into the faintly mocking, and is rewarded by a snarl from Hamilton. He laughs, stands, and finally paces around in front of Hamilton.

It’s quite a sight.

Naked and bound by black ropes, Hamilton stares up at Burr defiantly, his jaw set and a muscle in his cheek jumping. There’s something like determination burning in his black eyes and a flush on his cheeks, subtle beneath the warm tint of his skin. Burr crosses his arms and leans back on Hamilton’s desk, watching carefully. Nothing like an audience to remind you of the position you’re in. After a moment, Hamilton is forced to look away. He fidgets, and there’s a soft sound as the resulting tension on the ropes makes him draw a breath in over his teeth.

“Jefferson would have been impatient,” Burr decides, watching Hamilton. He keeps his voice level; speculating on it like it’s the weather. “Couple of knots around your wrists. Nothing like this.” Hamilton shoots Burr a venomous glance that tells Burr all he needs to know. “Ahh, so that _was_ it. And since you are a spoiled child, I’m assuming he didn’t _spare the rod._ ” The muscles in Hamilton’s shoulders tighten involuntarily. “Good to know you don’t bruise easily.”

“I fought in the war,” Hamilton tells the sideboard, obviously offended. “I’m _not fragile._ ”

Burr steps forward, sensing that he’s just about reached the limits of Hamilton’s ability to be polite. “I didn’t say you were.”

“Well, you don’t say _much,_ Burr, although you talk a damn – “

This time Burr snaps a hand forward, and grabs the rope where it crosses Hamilton’s chest. When he hauls on it he can only imagine the sort of friction it puts on Hamilton’s cock. He pieces it together from the strangled moan that sneaks past Hamilton’s gritted teeth, the way Hamilton’s face goes tight and then slack in succession. Hamilton leans forward, taking some of the pressure off his throat, into the tension of Burr’s fist. His spine curves, head bowing, open lips brushing against Burr’s wrist. Burr holds him in position again; letting him feel the helplessness of it, knees just off the floor, strung on the two lines that keep him alternately breathless and aroused.

“Careful,” Burr tells Hamilton, softly.

“ _Burr,”_ Hamilton moans, by way of response. It might be a plea for mercy. Burr can’t tell. He tightens his grip, wrapping the rope a little more tightly up, and forces a sound from Hamilton that’s almost a sob.

“Sir,” he corrects, calmly.

“ _Sir,”_ Hamilton gasps. “Sir, _please – “_

When Burr lets him go Hamilton drops to the floor with a hard knock of bone on wood. He shudders, still curled over, panting desperately, neck strained as he tries to catch his breath. Burr steps back from Hamilton and runs a hand over his own head. His palm comes back damp with sweat. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. _Calm down. There’s time._ He can feel the pulse of blood in his throat, his stomach, the hot rush of adrenaline through the thick veins in his thumbs.

Hamilton is fighting his way back to a comfortable position already, finding an equilibrium between the ropes. Some of the fight has gone out of him; when he raises his head it’s slow and languid and Burr can start to see an unfocused drift in his eyes. That could be the oxygen loss, but Burr’s guessing it’s something deeper.

“Tell me,” he says, judging the moment.

“You’re right,” Hamilton responds, honest and open. He doesn’t quite manage to meet Burr’s eyes; he’s staring at the brass buttons on Burr’s chest and their golden reflection gleams in his black pupils. “He had a whip.”

Satisfaction and anger war for a hot second in Burr’s stomach, but he tamps it down. “He wanted you to beg.”

“Of course he did,” Hamilton responds bitterly. “And I did. For – “ He cuts himself off by biting his lip so hard Burr can see the skin go white.

And just like that the moment is on them and Burr has to act fast or it’s gone. He’s down on Hamilton in a second, grabbing Hamilton’s chin, forcing it upwards. The ropes saw back and forth.

“For _Washington,”_ he demands, not allowing space for a denial.

Hamilton’s black eyes gleam in the candlelight. He nods, and for the space of a breath Burr doesn’t know whether or not he has enough air in his lungs to speak. Then something breaks in Hamilton’s face and his lips are moving, shaping the word soundlessly. _Yes._

For Washington. _Yes. Yes._

Burr holds him steady, his thumb and index finger digging in to Hamilton’s bones. “Tell me,” he repeats, a little harder. “ _Now,_ Hamilton.”

And Hamilton does.

 

9 -

Hamilton nearly trips over Jefferson outside Washington’s office. Jefferson is sprawled back in one of the chairs in the hall, his long legs blocking the aisle. By the time Hamilton notices he’s already off-balance. He’s forced to hop to the side, swerving out of his way and skirting Jefferson’s boots, careening dizzily into the middle of the hall. Madison, hunkered over beside Jefferson, laughs. Hamilton feels his face flush, and draws his chest up with a deep breath.

“Mister Secretary,” he says, furious, hoping the scorn is obvious. _Damn_ Jefferson, the obstinate, impertinent, _racist –_

Jefferson nods back, grinning widely. “Hamilton.” He doesn’t bother to get up. He does, however, give Hamilton a slow and insulting once over. Hamilton’s face gets hotter. _Hamilton, he calls me. Like I don’t deserve a title._ Jefferson’s still smiling at him, elegant hands folded across the long line of his stomach. _Of course he’s **tall.** He would be **tall.**_ Tall. Leanly muscled. Dark hair like a cloud over his intelligent brow. _If there were any justice in the world he’d be humpbacked and have gout,_ Hamilton thinks furiously. He also makes a mental note to eat another meal, now and again, pad out the stark bones of his own ribs. Not that Hamilton’s focused on appearances, or anything. Not that Jefferson is _frustratingly_ –

Hamilton grits his teeth and says loudly, “I’m expected.” Better than any other one of the thoughts going through his head. He can’t help glancing at the door as he says it; solid oak, the wood dark and impassive. If there’s a merciful god in heaven at all, Jefferson isn’t meant to be in there with him. Lord knows Washington is going to be furious after the debacle in Cabinet, and Hamilton would rather not have an _audience_ for his scolding. _Especially_ Jefferson. Obstinate. Impertinent. _Tall._

“By all means,” Jefferson drawls, gesturing languidly. “Go on.” That makes Madison laugh again, and Hamilton scowls at him.

Madison raises an eyebrow. “Is there a reason for your delay, Mister Secretary?”

Hamilton fists his hands at his sides and snaps, “Maybe I’m wondering why you have nothing better to do than hang around Washington’s office all day.”

At that the two of them exchange a look and a smile that makes Hamilton extremely nervous. “I guess he’ll find out, won’t he?” Jefferson asks Madison.

Madison smiles again – that opaque, meaningless expression. “I suppose he will.” If Jefferson’s smile looks like a threat, Madison’s looks perfectly innocuous. It’s almost worse. Hamilton makes a short sound through his nose and gives up on them – if there’s anything to hear here, he’s going to get it better out of Washington then he ever will out of _them._ He takes a step towards the door, reaching out for the handle. At the last second, though, Hamilton hesitates. He can’t shake the feeling he’s missing something. Maybe they were waiting – maybe there’s a chance –

Hamilton turns back to Jefferson, his fists clenched at his sides, his pride a thick knot in his throat. If he can convince a compromise from Jefferson, if Jefferson is finally willing to hear _reason_ – “About the financial plan – “

“Oh no. No. Daddy’s waiting, Alexander. Better hurry.”

 _I should have known._ Hamilton flushes, furious again. He can’t do anything to stop Jefferson jeering. Madison’s stoic silence isn’t much better; he watches Hamilton with his dark eyes, seeming faintly amused. Hamilton convinces himself determinedly he’s going to rise above it – above both of them. It’s what Washington would want, after all. His chin lifts a couple degrees into the air. _Damn them both, then._ “Mister Secretary.”

“Hamilton.”

Hamilton turns his back on Jefferson without another word. He opens the door to Washington’s office and steps inside, his head still somehow – mercifully – high.

“Shut the door,” Washington says, not even glancing up from his papers. A pair of thin wire spectacles rest low on his nose. Hamilton does as he’s told, and Washington’s pen scratches a few more lines over the foolscap he’s holding. Usually, Washington’s presence would make Hamilton’s hackles smooth down. At the moment, though, it’s not doing much.

Hamilton keeps seeing Jefferson in his head, leering, Madison’s slow white smile burning over his shoulder. _God, if I could settle this on a duelling ground –_

But Washington is speaking. “I take it you saw Madison and Jefferson.”

Hamilton’s nails dig in to his palms as he takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down. “What are they _doing_ here, sir?” His voice even comes out close to level. Hamilton feels like he should congratulate himself. Keeping a civil tongue in his head when it comes to those two is more difficult than winning a war.

“Same thing you are, I imagine. Seeking a compromise.” _Washington,_ of course, can’t see how frustrating Jefferson is. He loves the man. Jefferson’s precious _declaration,_ his blockades in Congress, his _factionalism –_

 _Washington should throw them all into the river._ Hamilton loses a couple more notches on his self-restraint. “They don’t even have a plan of their own – “ he says, stepping forward.

“ _Hamilton.”_

It brings him up short, like it always does. There’s no fighting it; nothing that can ease the bare and visceral command in Washington’s voice. Hamilton jerks to a halt. He lets his chin lower to his chest like he’s bracing for a blow. He feels his stomach turn over, sloshing bitter acidic resentment into his chest.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, finally.

“Jefferson has a proposal. I want you to take it.”

For a moment Hamilton can’t do anything but gape. _Jefferson,_ bringing a compromise to Washington? It’s too good to be true. “Wh – but I thought – “

“Don’t get me wrong, son.” Washington turns the page and keeps writing without even looking up. “Jefferson’s made an offer he thinks you can’t possibly take. I want you to prove him wrong.” The firelight gleams on his skin. His hands, as always, are steady. Those hands give Hamilton nightmares – the calm, competent strength in them. He’s seen those hands on a musket. On a knife. On a man’s neck.

Hamilton swallows. “What is it, sir?”

“You won’t like it.”

“ _What’s the offer?”_ It comes out harsh, ripped from Hamilton’s teeth. But it wins him a small victory. Washington looks up, one eyebrow raised. Hamilton wavers helplessly in the doorway, caught like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. “What do they want me to do?” he asks, desperately. “You know I’ll –“

_For the financial plan, for the Union, for you –_

“The capital goes to the Potomac. You get the banks.”

It’s too good to be true. Hamilton’s mouth moves before his brain, like always. “But that’s perfect.”

“There’s a price.” Washington hasn’t stopped watching him; Hamilton feels those eyes like he’s a battlefield Washington is surveying, deploying troops and preparing tactics. Suddenly Hamilton’s mouth is dry, and it’s difficult to swallow. God, he’s had nightmares. Dreams. Nightmares.

“A price.”

“Officially, you’re about to come to this decision over dinner at Jefferson’s private residence tonight.”

And now Hamilton knows what Washington’s asking him to do. “Sir…” He knows his voice is pleading. It wouldn’t be the first time Washington’s asked this of him. Never anyone he didn’t want, in the end. Washington was too good of a judge of character for that. But a wavering ally – a local despot who could feed the troops –

 _Washington’s Tom Cat,_ like a gift, the cravat around his neck a red ribbon for them to unspin. And if Hamilton had let them, if he’d dreamed – _had nightmares –_ helplessly, that it was Washington’s hands on him –

But it was never like this. “Jefferson,” Hamilton whispers.

“You can say no.”

Oh. Of course. Of course he can always say no. Say no and say goodbye to his financial plan, doom the Union to debt, disappoint his commander. _Damn him,_ Hamilton thinks. His head scrambles, trying to think of the words, come up with a plea that will take these last few moments back so he doesn’t have to ever hear the plan. Doesn’t have to take it up. He realizes he’s been staring at Washington in silence, his face cold as his cheeks pale. Washington’s still watching him, pen poised elegantly over the page.

An illusion of choice. Hamilton feels it like chains around his wrists and his pride, indomitable, stings at the back of his tongue. “I _can’t_ say no.”

“I never force you to anything, young man.”

 _You never have to. You know it. I know it._ Hamilton swallows dryly. “And if I say yes?”

“You go out that door and ask Jefferson for his help. He’ll know what you mean.”

“I have to beg him.” One last blow to his pride. Of course it would be like that. Of course. “Sir – “

Finally, Washington stands. Hamilton feels his eyes slide shut with something like relief as Washington comes around the desk, crossing the floor to where Hamilton is standing. He feels Washington’s breath on his brow, and then Washington’s hand is on his shoulder. Washington’s fingers are sliding around the back of Hamilton’s neck. Hamilton leans in to the touch. His eyelids are heavy but somehow he manages to open them, staring up into Washington’s face. _My commander._

“You can do this,” Washington says. The force of belief in his face is heart-breaking. “I wouldn’t ask if you couldn’t, Alexander.”

“It’s hard,” Hamilton whispers, his lips barely moving, his entire body centred on Washington’s light touch against the skin of his neck. Washington never gives him more than that. _And if I wish he would – if I have dreams, if I have nightmares –_

“I know,” Washington responds, merciless. The warmth of his hand recedes and he’s turning his back again.

“Make it an order,” Hamilton babbles desperately at his back. “That would be easier – “

“I know it would be.” Washington sits. “It’s not an order, Hamilton. It’s your choice.”

It’s no choice. Hamilton is dismissed. Jefferson looks up as he comes out of Washington’s office. Hamilton stares down into those dark eyes, that wide wolfish grin. “All right?” Jefferson asks.

“I need,” Hamilton grinds out, between his teeth, “Your help.”

And Jefferson smiles.

 

_9 –_

Two days later Jefferson opens his door for Hamilton with a flourish. His arms extended into a dancer’s elegant posture, he sweeps through the hall the same way he sweeps into Congress; taking up all the available space, letting Hamilton trail along in his wake. “Dinner,” he announces, as a servant shuts the door behind them. “But wine first. Come to the table.”

“I’d rather skip the pleasantries – “

“Lucky I don’t give a damn what you want, Hamilton.” Jefferson grins. He turns, arms spread open. “For once, I don’t have to listen to a single word you say to me.” Underneath the sparkling candlelight and the high white ceilings, the gold buttons on his chest gleam like stars. He looks like every image of decadent royalty that Hamilton has seen published in the broadsheets, at once perfectly polished and absolutely disdainful of it.

Hamilton’s stomach burns. He can claw his way up from nothing, he can go from rags to the most fashionable clothes in New York city and Jefferson will _still_ make him feel like poor, money-grubbing, worthless –

“So helpless. I almost feel bad for you.” Jefferson jeers.

“Washington – “ Hamilton starts, furiously, knowing it’s the only card he has to play.

“Washington sold you to us.” That’s James Madison’s voice, steady and low at Hamilton’s back. Hamilton jumps. He almost forgot. When he turns, Madison is standing against the wall by the door, his arms folded over his chest. He’s dressed simply, to offset Jefferson’s opulence; a red so deep it’s nearly black, buttoned tight and austere to his chin.

Hamilton’s heart begins to thump against his ribs. He’s not stupid, after all. They _planned_ to startle him. They’re trading his attention back and forth purposefully; showing him how they operate. Jefferson is showy and Madison is slow, steady, implacable, and they are so used to working together it might as well be breathing. _So that’s how it’s going to be_ , Hamilton thinks. _I might piss off Jefferson enough to make him reckless – might distract him or tease him or bring him around to what I want – but then there would be Madison._

It all passes through Hamilton’s head in the space of a heartbeat and it must show clear on his face because Madison smiles, again. That cool and inscrutable smile. Hamilton’s going to have nightmares.

_Dreams?_

**_Nightmares,_** Hamilton commands himself. Out loud, he says, “So what do I do?”

“That’s better.” Madison pushes himself off the wall. “Thomas, have that wine fetched to the office.”

“Something in mind?” Jefferson asks, mock-casual. He drops out of the dancer’s posture into his usual slouch, coming off stage with a self-aware smile for Madison.

“You’re always talking about teaching him his place.” Madison shrugs one shoulder, as if it couldn’t matter less to him. “Why don’t we, then?” He walks past Hamilton as if Hamilton’s not even there, pushing past Jefferson to the stairwell.

 _Untouchable,_ Hamilton thinks. His teeth are grinding again. It’s the two of them – _Southerners –_ that lazy and unassailable arrogance. _I could drag them **both** all over the Congress floor – _But it doesn’t matter, does it? _I’d still just be a whore’s son to them –_

“Come on, Alexander.” Jefferson’s voice is teasing. Hamilton blinks. They’ve left him behind in the hall; Jefferson is standing on the stairwell already and Madison’s disappeared upstairs out of sight. Jefferson grins. “Losing you so early?” He leans over on the bannister, fingers stroking idle circles on the smooth wood.

Hamilton scowls at him. “You know, I’m not exactly new at this.”

“Then you always preform this badly?” Hamilton’s shoulders drop and set into position and he has to force himself to back down before he throws a punch. Rather than saying anything further, he stalks stiff-legged to the stairwell. When he comes abreast of Jefferson, Jefferson pivots; leaning back with both elbows on the bannister to watch Hamilton pass. When Hamilton’s three steps above him he says, “If this is all you can do I _wonder_ what he pays you for…”

Hamilton’s spine stiffens, but he says nothing.

Jefferson laughs and follows him up the rest of the stairs. There’s a light on, to their left; Hamilton goes through a white-painted door and comes up in Jefferson’s office. Of all things, there’s a _bed_ on the far side. It blocks what might otherwise be a perfectly reasonable hallway. Madison is waiting for them, seated in one of the chairs, the big mahogany desk under the windows standing clear.

“The wine,” he says to Jefferson.

“You could have called for it,” Jefferson complains. He crosses to the sideboard and rings for a servant, who appears carrying a deep green bottle swaddled in a white towel. It’s all surreally domestic. Hamilton stands, frozen, as Jefferson sends the girl away and turns to Madison, still holding the bottle.

“It’s for him,” Madison says. His eyes slide over, find Hamilton’s face. “Hamilton. Come pour me a drink.”

There’s two glasses set out beside him on a low table and Hamilton swallows, trying not to feel the insult against his throat. “You want me to serve you.”

Jefferson catches on at that point, laughing, and shoves the bottle at Hamilton. “Go on, then.”

Hamilton takes the bottle. It’s cool against his fingers, moisture slick on its neck. He cradles it in the towel and crosses haltingly to Madison, his legs jerking on each step. It’s graceless. Liquid slops in the bottle. _I’m better than this,_ Hamilton thinks, cursing himself, but he can’t make his feet work quite right –

It doesn’t matter. He’s there, somehow. With a sense of relief Hamilton lowers the neck of the bottle to Madison’s glass.

“Stop,” Madison says, evenly. Hamilton looks up, bewildered, and Madison makes a slow gesture with one hand. “Down.”

 _Down?_ Hamilton stares at him dumbly, blindsided.

Jefferson has to drawl, “On your _knees,”_ for Hamilton to get it, and Hamilton flushes in desperate humiliation. Jefferson’s enjoying this. “He’s a little bit slow, isn’t he?”

Madison’s head inclines a hair. “Down,” he repeats, with that faint and enigmatic smile. _“Boy._ ”

 _This is how it’s going to be, then,_ Hamilton thinks wildly, still staring at Madison. _Jefferson’s the public face but in private it’s Madison, it’s Madison all along –_

He’s still thinking it when Jefferson’s hand wraps in his hair, yanking it loose from its queue. There’s a sharp jerk at the base of Hamilton’s skull and then he’s dragged backwards, falling haphazardly to his knees. Cool, cream-coloured wine sloshes out of the bottle onto his trousers.

Madison clicks his tongue, but it’s Jefferson that jeers – “Slow _and_ clumsy. I’m starting to think you don’t actually want this, Hamilton.”

As usual Hamilton’s mouth starts before his brain. “You keep trying to –“

Jefferson shuts him off with a hard pull, drawing Hamilton backwards in a long curve until his throat is bared and he’s staring up into Jefferson’s white flashing teeth. “Thought you were going to be a good boy for _Daddy,_ ” Jefferson purrs, grinning widely. “Didn’t Washington tell you to play nice?” Damn him. _Damn_ him. He’s going to enjoy every minute of this –

Hamilton wants to grab at the hands holding him but he can’t do it without dropping the bottle. He thinks of Madison’s eyes, steady on his exposed throat. Cool drops of wet are already soaking through his trousers to the skin of his thighs. If he spills more – Hamilton swallows. His heart is beating fast against his jaw. It’s the sheer helplessness of it – the feeling of being caught between them, nowhere to turn and nowhere to run.

Hamilton’s always been bad at that line between fear and desire. Where was it supposed to be? He tries to swallow again, and can’t.

“Pour him a drink,” Jefferson suggests. “We’re _waiting._ ” He throws Hamilton’s head away roughly and Hamilton’s hair flies out around his shoulders.

Madison is holding his glass out. Hands shaking, Hamilton reaches up. Pours.

“That’s better.” Madison, setting the theme.

And Jefferson, fleshing out the details. “On your knees like a good Creole boy. Serving your betters. Didn’t you always know you were going to end up here? No matter how much Washington likes having you in his lap?” _The brain and the mouth_ , Hamilton thinks, but then Jefferson’s fingers thread through his hair again and Jefferson says, “Or is it that he doesn’t like having you in his lap _enough,_ I wonder,” and Hamilton is reminded with lethal immediacy of just how _sharp_ Jefferson can be. Two brilliant minds. _And they hate me_. Hamilton feels a pulse of real fear beat in his neck, and his fingers tighten on the wine bottle. Madison holds out a second glass, for Jefferson.

A traitorous heat starts to build in his stomach.

That’s when he knows they’ve won.

He swallows and pours, twisting his wrist at the end so more drops don’t fall onto the carpet. He can feel the heat of Jefferson’s body behind him as Madison leans back in the chair, placing the second glass on the table. He picks his own up and takes a long slow swallow. Everything measured, with Madison. Everything carefully judged. Every aspect considered.

_Like Burr – but don’t think of Burr here – don’t don’t don’t –_

_Burr with the slight frown that gathers on his forehead in court looking at every aspect of a problem fingers on his temples_ Jesus, Hamilton, _frustrated and exasperated and I’m faster I’m smarter but he still always manages to outthink me and he warned me didn’t he_ merciless, Hamilton, _with that slight frown that gathers on his forehead when I am working too hard and he came in to my office once and found me writing and laughed at the smudge of ink on my forehead so hard he had to hold my desk to stay upright like I made him I made him I made him_

_weak_

Hamilton can’t help his brain when it gets going and now it’s a jumbled waterfall of images and sensations and smells. He reels on his knees. A thin bead of liquid runs down Madison’s jaw, over the tendons in his neck. It could be sweat or moisture or spilled wine from his lips. Hamilton can’t tell. Jefferson’s fingers stroke through his hair, curiously gentle, and they seem to be severing a critical part of him from the rest of his body. If he doesn’t say anything he’s going to fall into this forever: the vast still expanse of fear and desire that is starting to close around the edges of his mind. _When all else fails, ignore Aaron Burr’s advice,_ Hamilton thinks.

“Washington likes me in his lap just fine,” he lies breezily, hiding the twinge in his stomach at the thought of _that_ being true. “You know how it is during a war. Oh, _wait_ …”

Jefferson’s hand freezes. Madison goes from relaxed in his chair to the utter flawless stillness of a deer hearing a branch snap in the forest. The room is silent.

And tension snaps into place like a bolt of lightning connects between the sky and the earth. It doesn’t even seem like the clock ticks. Madison doesn’t blink. Hamilton’s breath catches somewhere between the back of his mouth and his collarbone. Behind him, Jefferson shifts his weight, and the rustle of cloth-on-cloth is devastating in the stillness. Madison looks down at Hamilton. Jefferson’s fingers twitch, just slightly, in Hamilton’s hair.

“Stupid,” Madison says back, just as lightly. “Very stupid, Alexander.” He looks up at Jefferson. “Thomas?”

“I was just thinking that,” Jefferson replies. Then his light touch in Hamilton’s hair is a fist and he’s dragging Hamilton up, throwing him forward so Hamilton has to catch himself painfully with his palms against the edge of Jefferson’s desk.

The bottle smashes at his feet, staining his boots, sending green-glass shards flying through the carpet like stars. Madison makes a soft disapproving sound and Hamilton takes a breath that resounds in the stillness, harsh and ragged. He tries to straighten. He tries to turn.

And Jefferson is on him. Christ, Hamilton hadn’t counted on how _fast_ he would be. All that languid, lazy muscle, liquid in motion like a snake. Jefferson’s hand snaps out over Hamilton’s, grabbing his hand and dragging it forward over the desk until Hamilton is forced to stretch, on his toes, arm wrenched at an awkward angle over his head.

 _Tall –_ Hamilton thinks – and hadn’t Jefferson been a head taller than him – or was it more – and _big,_ too, the muscles of his broad chest hard against Hamilton’s back. Claustrophobia surges through Hamilton’s stomach and his fingers scrabble on the desk, seeking purchase. His hips twist, bucking him forward –

And up into Jefferson, who laughs low in his throat and grinds himself down against Hamilton’s movement.

 _I can’t,_ Hamilton thinks wildly, _I can’t, I can’t –_

 _I wouldn’t ask you if you couldn’t,_ Washington says, and Hamilton gasps for air so loud and helpless that it makes Jefferson laugh again. “He didn’t, did he,” Jefferson purrs into Hamilton’s ear, his breath hot against Hamilton’s skin. “He never. But you’ve been _pining…”_

“Get those clothes off him,” Madison says, somewhere distant. “He doesn’t deserve them.”

Hard-won silks and velvets he’d scraped together every penny for. Clothes to make him rise above his station. _I am only a peasant to them,_ Hamilton thinks. _I am nothing, they will make me nothing –_ but there’s Washington, in front of him. Hamilton squeezes his eyes shut. He hears the cold metal sound of a knife being drawn, and then the rasp of it working through his clothes. Then it touches his flank, and Hamilton can’t help but flinch away.

“Steady,” Madison says – or is it Jefferson? “Don’t want that to slip.”

Hamilton goes still and the sheer flinching physicality of it makes Jefferson laugh. His thumb strokes along the bare skin of Hamilton’s back, for a moment, parallel with the knife rasping over his skin. It’s not enough to cut but in its wake Hamilton can feel his hairs rise, his skin pricked up. Jefferson’s soft thumb on the over-sensitive skin feels like a brand, so vulnerable and intimate that Hamilton’s shoulders shudder.

And then with one quick motion the knife tears upwards through all of Hamilton’s pretend class, stripping it from him.

The air in the room is cold against his bare skin. Jefferson makes short work of his clothes; nothing stops him for long except the belt, and then with a grunt and a wrench of his shoulder that’s gone too. Hamilton is naked, a few rags pinned between his stomach and the desk.

“Clothes are a start,” Jefferson approves. “What’s next?”

“His mouth,” Madison supplies.

Jefferson’s knuckles graze up Hamilton’s spine. _Still holding the knife, oh, **god** – _

When Hamilton’s eyes open the room is a kaleidoscope of brilliant diamond light. He must be crying. _Do this for me,_ Washington says. Jefferson sets the knife to the back of Hamilton’s neck. “Stay still.” _Son._ If it was Washington –

_If he had me like this, those clever capable hands, I_

_or Burr?_ something asks, treacherously, whispering from a corner of Hamilton’s skull. The thought makes him shut his eyes again.

_not here – not the prodigy of Princeton college, don’t bring him here, into this, let him see me like this, I – I thought I could impress him, I, thought I, I thought I had my mind, they, couldn’t take that from me, I –_

Bitter with self-hatred – _I was so proud –_

He barely notices the rope slipping around his wrists until Jefferson yanks the through-line tight. He pulls Hamilton forward by it, until Hamilton’s arms are wrenched over his head and his stomach is flattened out over the desk. If Hamilton just stretches, he can get his weight on his toes. His hips are pinned nearly flush with the hard wood, the edge of it catching painfully on his cock. Hamilton winces, trying to wiggle himself into a better position, and Jefferson laughs. He leans over Hamilton to hitch the rope out of sight under the far side of his desk. There must be a hook for it there, but Jefferson doesn’t have to look. _Done this before,_ Hamilton registers. The rope is rough against his wrists and he pulls, instinctively, but it’s tight. For a second Jefferson leans on him, putting his weight down against Hamilton. The bones of Hamilton’s ribs go flat against the surface of the desk. Jefferson’s heart beats against Hamilton’s shoulder blade. Lord, he’s big. He doesn’t even have to stretch to reach the other side of the desk, and Hamilton is strung out trying to keep the edges from cutting into him.

_I can’t breathe._

_You can breathe. You’re panicking._

Jefferson sets his mouth in to Hamilton’s ear, shoving Hamilton’s head to the side with brute force so his teeth can scrape over Hamilton’s jaw. Down near Hamilton’s chin he bites in, and Hamilton forces back a grunt.

Jefferson’s breath is hot on his skin. “Washington doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he whispers. His fingers run the length of Hamilton’s ribs, drumming the taut skin over the bone. Hamilton squirms, grimacing, hating that he’s helpless to stop it. At the curve of his hip Jefferson’s hand flattens, palm drawing Hamilton up into a long slow roll of his hips. It makes Hamilton’s back arch, his shoulders rising, his neck pushing up into Jefferson’s mouth. Jefferson’s teeth are rasping on him again, then his tongue – hot wet circles, bruises sucked over Hamilton’s tendons as he rocks them together.

Hamilton gasps before he can help himself, tries to swallow it down and ends up with something like a sob.

“Listen to that. I thought he was entertaining us, not the other way around.”

Hamilton can feel Jefferson’s chuckle against his skin. Then Jefferson is pulling back, one last thrust of his hips pressing Hamilton against the desk. Hamilton makes a soft mewling sound, and immediately wishes he was dead. _Too easy. If I could just pretend they weren’t getting to me –_

“Sorry,” Jefferson purrs, self-satisfied, “I’m just too good.”

Rather than responding, Madison pitches his voice a little bit louder. “I’m sorry, Alexander. Thomas is _very_ attractive, but you’re not here so we can satisfy whatever fantasies you’ve been having in Congress.” It makes Thomas laugh, again. He’s always laughing. Fingers trail over the back of his thigh and Hamilton flinches, but he doesn’t mind that as much as he minds Jefferson _laughing_ at him again.

“Is that true, Alex? You been thinking about doing more than fighting on the Congress floor?”

Hamilton grits his teeth and decides that there is no amount of approval from Washington that could be worth agreeing to _that._ “You must be _high,_ you arrogant prick. I’d rather have sex with a –“

There’s a sharp quick sound like the sling of a whip and then a white line of pain snaps over Hamilton’s bare thighs. He barely registers the _crack_ of whatever it is hitting him, because he loses all the breath in his lungs and his balance and for a treacherous moment he sags against the desk, held in place only by the ropes around his wrists.

“Jesus,” he gasps.

“Don’t lie to us,” Madison says, calmly. “Thomas…”

And then Jefferson is at Hamilton’s side. One hand in Hamilton’s hair, hauling his head up. Hamilton knows what he looks like. He’s a mess. He’s a wreck. Sweat makes hair stick on his cheeks and he’s panting, his face red and stained with moisture. Jefferson drinks him in, grinning. His eyes trace Hamilton’s face as if he’s devouring every inch of humiliation in that expression.

His pupils, Hamilton notes, are blown.

“Hit him again, James.”

And Madison does. And there’s the sting of the blow and Jefferson’s eyes on him, and Hamilton feels his whole body shudder but he manages not to cry out. Jefferson makes a low, growling sound in the back of his throat. A _pleased_ sound, like a dog with a toy. Hamilton’s eyes must have squeezed shut, because he has to open them again to see Jefferson’s face.

Jefferson’s lips are slightly parted, his eyes intent on Hamilton. His pupils are blown. When he says, “Again – and this time, Hamilton, keep your eyes on me,” his voice is low and deep and purposeful.

It also makes Hamilton moan. That, rather than the blow. Jefferson knows; Hamilton can see it in his face. His fingers twist in Hamilton’s hair, sending sharp sparks of pain down Hamilton’s scalp, and the pain of the lash explodes over Hamilton’s exposed back again, but – _no, don’t think it, don’t go there, don’t –_ there was _approval_ in Jefferson’s smile –

_But I cannot possibly be craving that –_

“Eyes on me,” Jefferson reminds him. “James – “ And the lash comes down again.

For a moment Hamilton forgets Jefferson entirely. The white heat and slash of the pain through his brain sets every single one of his nerves on fire. It feels like going into shock. In the corner of Hamilton’s eye he see Madison’s arm draw back again and his breath tears at the corners of his mouth in sheer, abject terror. _I can’t, I can’t –_ Jefferson’s grip digs in to his shoulder. Hamilton’s fingers scrabble desperately on the desk, the rough ropes cutting brutally into his wrists.

“Not enjoying _this_ so much, are we?” Jefferson whispers, sweet and solicitous. Hamilton gasps in response. Sweat is starting to pick out cool between his hot shoulder blades and his head is light and fuzzy, like there isn’t enough blood left in him for all of his brain. His skin is burning. He is twisting – an animal response, trying to get away, grinding his hips against the side of the desk. Madison hits him again. And again. There are choked-out sounds coming from between his teeth that he can’t seem to swallow down. He can’t take any more. He has to.

_Washington, I –_

_You’ve done well, son. My right hand man._ Hamilton gasps, tries to hear it in Washington’s voice. _That’s enough now. I saw. I saw what you did and I’m proud._

Hamilton thinks he whimpers then, but he isn’t sure. Jefferson’s stroking his hair and he is drowning in the two of them. Each blow jerks him forward against the desk. He gasps for air, desperate, suffocating anyways.

When he manages to open his eyes he finds Jefferson smiling at him. There’s no mercy in that smile; there’s nothing except a devouring, animal hunger. _Humiliate. Dominate._ Jefferson wants to put Hamilton in his place so bad it glitters like flame in his eyes. Hamilton feels a sharp spark of fear go through him. He is shuddering, helpless, turning his head into his arm so he doesn’t have to meet that terrible, merciless desire.

_He’s going to fuck me after this. He’s going to spend himself in me, own me every way he knows how to –_

Hamilton trembles again, and this time, it’s not fear making him shake. Adrenaline is a dizzy rush in his brain. He is terrified. It makes his pulse snap through his ears like war drums, makes his toes curl and his muscles quake. And every beat of Madison’s blows on his back drives that adrenaline-hot mess forward.

Into his stomach.

_I want him. I – god I –_

It burns like shame, and for a reeling second Hamilton feels himself slip under completely; losing everything but the burn and the sting and the breathless desperation of utter despair.

“Enough,” Jefferson says, over his head.

“That easy?” Madison responds, amused.

Then, unexpected, a hand shoves between Hamilton’s hips and the desk. And it all goes bright and golden. Hamilton’s head tosses back. His brain restarts like a firecracker going off; all the pain and fear collides, sharp edges shattering into glass fragments and mindless, breathless, heat. He’s hard. Christ, he’s _been_ hard. And Madison’s hand moves on him with consummate skill, the writing-callouses on his fingers running rough down the vein at the base of Hamilton’s cock.

Somehow Hamilton manages a moan, grinding his hips forward into that expert, devastating touch.

“There he is,” Jefferson murmurs. He draws Hamilton’s head back by his hair, so he can look into Hamilton’s face. “Washington’s slut. Do you want more of this?”

Hamilton has pride. He swears, he does. Somewhere. “Yes.”

“Will you ask us nice?” Jefferson grins.

This time it’s Madison that laughs, and Hamilton _knows_ that he swore he’d never sink this low, but he doesn’t care. He can’t think.

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” Jefferson gloats. “Madison’s going to hit you ten more times.” Hamilton moans, but Madison’s hand hasn’t stopped moving on him and he’s getting heartbreakingly close to something that feels like shattering. “You say please, please hit me, _sirs,_ and we’ll give you ten more. Then we’ll fuck you. You want that, don’t you? To throw away everything you believe in for us.” It’s a trick. It’s got to be. They’ll make Hamilton ask, but they’ll never be satisfied with ten. They’ll keep going, through his skin to his bones until there’s nothing left of him but the fire of his nerves and the sing of his body like stars on the surface of an endless dark sea. Jefferson smiles, reading Hamilton’s mind, and Hamilton tries to swallow but all there is in his mouth is acrid spit and desperation. He _wants._ He can’t possibly endure it. The fire in his head's going to kill him. He can’t take ten more. He can’t take one more. It’s unbearable.

“Say please, you want ten more,” Jefferson prompts. “You can count them for me.”

“Oh,” Hamilton whimpers. Articulate, brilliant Hamilton, the youngest delegate chosen for the constitutional convention. Reduced to this. “Please.”

“Ten on each leg.” _Now_ Madison insists on consent. Hamilton has enough brain cells left to know why. _I’m asking for this. I’m choosing this. They’re making it clear that **I want this**_.

He remembers thinking, _It’s no choice at all,_ and it hadn’t been, with Washington, but now it seems less clear –

 _If I say stop, if they did stop, would I be satisfied?_ Satisfied? What – _Do I even want them to stop?_

Ten more. “Please,” Hamilton says, again. “Ten on each leg.”

“Count them separately,” Madison says.

And at first, Hamilton does. He manages to count three on one. Three on the other. Two more on one – that’s five – and one – two – and then – and – one on the – “Four –“

“Oh. No, no. No, Alex.” Jefferson grins. “Can’t do basic math? That was _five_ on your left _._ ”

A pause. Hamilton moans.

“We’ll start again, Alex. One.” And Madison hits him on the left.

Every time the impact goes through Hamilton it’s like someone’s connected lightning rods to either side of his brain and he goes rigid, seizing up, letting the white hot heat rip through him. How can he keep track of the numbers? He is hollow. _I am nothing. I can’t breathe._ Two on one. And he can’t think. And that was five. And there is nothing. And three – and he is crying out – or was it four – past the moaning – and one – _or was it_ –

“Two. Three. Two. Four. I –“

Instead of a number, what comes out is a sob. Hamilton can’t think what comes next. He can’t think anything. There isn’t anything left in him and he can feel the prick of tears at the corners of his eyes. Madison hits him again and Hamilton can’t do anything but gasp into the flesh of his shoulder, “Sir – “

_That brilliant mind of mine. Where has it gone?_

Hamilton’s face is wet. His fingers are twisted up in the ropes, his wrists singing with pain. His whole body is screaming. And he’s crying, for the sheer inescapable defeat of it. There’s no end. Jefferson folds himself down over Hamilton, the flat plane of his chest warm against the still-stinging skin of Hamilton’s back. Hamilton feels the press of Jefferson’s lips at the back of his neck, then there’s a slight scrape of teeth.

“Prep him,” Madison says.

Hamilton whimpers. There’s sounds around him that he can’t trace, then a hand slides down between his legs. Jefferson’s fingers, slick, trace Hamilton’s entrance. Hamilton whimpers. “Say please,” Jefferson whispers, in Hamilton’s ear.

One last surrender. One last piece of your soul to sell.

Hamilton gulps back his tears. “Please.”

Jefferson shoves two fingers into him and Hamilton cries out, half from the pain and half because Jefferson’s touch is _unerring._ He hits Hamilton’s prostate easily, twisting his fingers as he draws them out so Hamilton feels the drag of their movement.

“Well?” Madison asks.

Jefferson laughs. “Let’s just say I won’t be disappointed if you want the mouth after all.”

 _They planned this. They knew –_ and that’s all Hamilton has room to think, because Jefferson is fucking him in earnest, now, short quick thrusts while his fingers work Hamilton open. Hamilton can’t do anything. He writhes on the desk, wrenching his ruined wrists against the ties, gasping for breath and trying to swallow down the worst of the sounds punched out of his stomach. If Madison’s hands had worked with consummate skill, Jefferson is an artist – unpredictable and wild and unrelenting, and Hamilton feels every muscle in his body draw tight and thrumming as Jefferson works him over.

“God,” he breathes, finally.

“Good, isn’t he?” Madison murmurs.

“Why, James.” Jefferson sounds delighted. “Didn’t know you cared…”

“I’m appreciative of your talents, Thomas. Even if you do take forever.”

“By all means.” And then Jefferson’s fingers withdraw, and Hamilton is left hanging there; his ass still raw from Madison’s beating, the space between his legs slick and a hot, hungry weight sitting low in his stomach. “Be my guest.”

Madison steps forward. There’s a blunt, hard pressure at Hamilton’s entrance. Jefferson’s fingers tangle in Hamilton’s hair again, stroking through it, quiet and possessive. “Make him scream, James.” Jefferson’s voice is soft and wondering, his touch gentle on Hamilton’s brow. Hamilton’s eyes squeeze shut.

 _I’m not going to –_ is as far as he gets. Then he can’t think anything at all. It’s too big. Too much. Madison works his way into Hamilton with slow, hard thrusts, _forcing_ himself in, and Hamilton feels himself tearing apart –

 _Please,_ he thinks, at no one in particular, _oh, god –_

 _Say stop,_ some whisper of self-preservation goads him. _Tell them to slow down, tell Madison you can’t do it –_

But what would Washington think, then? What would he say, if Hamilton came back empty-handed? He’d ask for Hamilton’s dismissal. He wouldn’t even be disappointed; he’d look at Hamilton like he expected, all along, like he never believed Hamilton could make him proud –

Hamilton’s eyes squeeze shut and he bites his lip so hard the taste of copper floods his mouth. Then Madison is seated in him, fully, and Hamilton almost can’t breathe with the press of it.

“God, Thomas, you’ve got to feel this,” Madison gasps. “Fuck, he’s – “

“I thought you were going to make him scream for me.” Jefferson’s fingers are a tight fist in Hamilton’s hair. He wrenches Hamilton’s head back, all the way, until Hamilton’s throat is strung tight with the tension. “Look at him. _Alexander Hamilton,_ the darling of Congress.”

In punctuation with Jefferson’s words, Madison rolls his hips forward, and Hamilton cries out. Inside him Madison’s cock drags against something that makes his knees weak and his vision unsteady. There had been pain – there’d been the sting of his raw skin and the stretch of Madison’s cock in him – but now there’s just _heat._ Hamilton can feel it build, gathering like static electricity where Madison’s sweat stings in his welts.

“Not running your mouth now, are you, Hamilton? Looks like you’ve finally figured out your station.”

Madison’s hips roll forward again and Hamilton moans helplessly, his eyes half-closed. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. Jefferson lets go of his hair and his head falls to the desk. His shoulders tremble. With each stroke Madison drives heat forward into Hamilton’s stomach, a relentless build of pressure that makes Hamilton feel like he’s going to explode. Too big. Too much. God, he’s been fucked – ask anybody, he’s been fucked – but not like this.

Jefferson grabs his chin and forces it upwards. He’s at the other side of the desk, now, leering down at Hamilton, and if he climbs up onto it –

Hamilton’s not so far gone that he can’t tell what’s coming next.

“Tell me again how you’re a match for us,” Jefferson goads Hamilton. “Tell me again how you’re smarter. You know what’s best. Tell me again you’re our equal, Alex, I dare you.”

Madison snaps his hips forward and Hamilton cries out, wordlessly, jerking against his bonds.

“Or maybe,” Jefferson supplies, helpfully, “You beg to suck me off. Then, if you do well enough, when he’s done I’ll let you come.”

 _I’d rather die than bend my knee to you –_ it’s on his lips fully formed but then Madison slams into him again and Hamilton’s mind is fractured and that _heat_ is pressing upwards on the inside of his lungs. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.

He just _wants._ “Please.” It’s abject, humiliated, utterly defeated. There’s nothing left in Hamilton to give – any boundary he might have had, they’ve trampled over it. _And I begged them to do it, every step of the way, I have been complicit, I have **wanted –**_

“Please what?”

“God.” Hamilton tries to think of the words, but it’s not easy. Madison grabs his hips and hauls him back a little, Hamilton’s damp skin sticking against the smooth wood of the desk. Then Madison’s hands are holding him up and back and each thrust is slamming down and through Hamilton like thunder. He can’t even start with words. He stares up at Jefferson, eyes wet, and licks his lips. “Please.” Maybe that will be enough –

“Should have done this to him at the constitutional convention,” Jefferson tells Madison. “Six hour speech and now he can’t even string ten words together to tell me, _stick your cock in my whore mouth, Mister Jefferson Sir._ ”

“Might have saved time,” Madison replies, his voice rough.

Jefferson laughs and jerks Hamilton’s chin upwards. “Come on, then. _Mister Jefferson, sir. Stick your cock in my whore mouth._ You can manage that. _”_

_I can manage that. I was so proud. I –_

But if there’s any part of Hamilton capable of feeling shame, capable of caring that these men are only interested in how far they can force him to grovel, he’s forgotten it. “Mister – Jefferson – sir – “ He has to stop, panting and moaning, as Madison hauls his hips up. The slap of skin on skin fills the room and Hamilton’s thighs are trembling as he pushes himself back up into each thrust. God, he could come. A hand on his cock. Anything. A _breath –_ “Please – stick your–“ The last bit sticks in his throat and Hamilton spits it out all at once, knowing it tastes bad but too far gone to care. “Your cock in my whore mouth.”

Jefferson practically crows in delight. He gets a knee up on the desk as he unfastens his britches, pulling them down around his thighs. Then his cock is in Hamilton’s mouth, the smell of his skin thick in Hamilton’s nose. Then Hamilton’s jaw is wrenched open too-wide, stretched at the edges, and his head is forced back at an awkward angle –

“You’re not going to get long,” Madison grunts.

“Done so soon?” Jefferson jeers back. “Dear me, James – “

Then Madison’s next thrust slams Hamilton forward, and Jefferson’s cock hits the back of his throat and he chokes, pinioned between them. He’s drowning. There’s nothing. There’s the vicious burn of Jefferson forcing his way down Hamilton’s throat, there’s the acrid salt of his sweat, the taste of his weight on Hamilton’s tongue. There’s the deep, golden heat that Madison’s thrusts are stroking into his stomach. There’s the dig of Madison’s fingers in his flanks, so tight Hamilton knows his skin will bruise. There’s the startled curse Jefferson makes as Hamilton curls his tongue upwards, a wicked little trick he learned – does it matter where he learned it? –

But it’s all nothing. It all adds up to a blank, white nothing in Hamilton’s head. He’s overwhelmed, overloaded. The sensations on his skin are hurricane wind. They rip him down to shreds and he is nothing, in the centre of it.

He feels saliva slick and spill over his chin as Jefferson thrusts in, so deep Hamilton half-thinks he’ll gag. He hasn’t gagged in years, but Jefferson is huge – too big, bigger than Madison, even – and there’s a moment of panic as he crushes Hamilton’s head down to his pubic bone and Hamilton loses the ability to breathe. Hamilton feels his body jerk. He fights the ropes again, for the hundredth time, but the knot Jefferson tied is secure.

And then there’s Madison. And then there’s the way that every time Madison’s hips move, Hamilton’s brain loses a little space in his skull. He’s going to go mad. His skin feels like it’s covered in rose thorns, like they’ve been pricking him with stinging nettles. At some point he’s gone limp and the edge of the desk is cutting painfully into the bones of his hips, so hard it might leave notches. Might leave scars. He might be forever marked –

And he doesn’t _care,_ doesn’t care about the choking, doesn’t care if he dies, doesn’t care they’ve humiliated him more thoroughly than he’ll be able to live with in the morning. He _wants._ He wants so desperately he thinks it might drive him mad.

Madison’s thrusts start to speed, losing rhythm as Madison drives towards climax. Hamilton wants to push back, tighten his muscles, do _something,_ but he can’t. He can’t do anything. Every reserve of strength he had in him is gone, now. He moans around Jefferson’s cock, working as hard as Jefferson will let him with his tongue and throat. This used to be a mark of pride, for Hamilton, too; _good with my mouth,_ speaking or not. Hamilton used to brag there wasn’t a man in the Revolutionary Army he couldn’t make beg, and he might even have been right. When Alexander Hamilton took a man into his mouth, he was showing off just how good he was –

And now he’s just desperately, desperately trying to be good enough. _Please. God, please. Please let me come._ Jefferson hasn’t even made a sound, not since that startled curse. If he had, Hamilton might have been able to know that he was doing well – might have been able to count on his skill to save him.

Madison spends himself in Hamilton in long, powerful strokes, and when Jefferson pulls free of his mouth Hamilton isn’t the least bit certain that he’s good enough.

Jefferson runs a thumb over the saliva on Hamilton’s chin. “My turn,” he says. Hamilton manages a whimper. He should be numb. Madison’s fucked him so hard and thorough that Hamilton should be entirely nerveless. His body should have given up on sensation entirely.

It hasn’t. And Jefferson is huge.

When he pushes inside Hamilton with nothing but the slick of Hamilton’s spit and Madison’s come to ease it, Hamilton cries out so ragged and broken it might as well be a scream. It’s. God. He. He _feels –he feels like nothing else I’ve, god, I’ve, I need, I, oh god, **please –**_ Hamilton writhes, desperately, grinding himself back, _rutting_ himself on Jefferson’s cock.

“Tell me you wanted me,” Jefferson murmurs, in Hamilton’s ear. He holds himself still. “You wanted this, you don’t care about the financial plan, you just wanted _this._ ”

“Oh, god, yes, please,” Hamilton begs, moving his hips as much as he can, “Please, sir – _fuck – ”_ Jefferson laughs, triumphant and cruel. He starts to move. He doesn’t touch Hamilton any more than he has to.

And when they’re done they cut the ropes and leave Hamilton naked on the desk for the servants to clean and dispose of.

They never let him come.

 

9.

“Humiliation,” Burr says. “Crude, I suppose. But effective.”

He stares down at Hamilton, bound and helpless in Burr’s ropes. _Good look on him,_ something whispers, but Burr shoves it aside. That can wait. Like everything else, there will be time, and time again –

Hamilton is waiting for a response, he knows. He can see it in the tense line of Hamilton’s shoulders. Hamilton is dreading that Burr might say, _of course, you wanted it all along, you can never rise above your station, this submission to the Virginians – to me – to Washington – you were born to be ruled –_

Hamilton’s fears, like everything else about the man, are obvious. Burr watches Hamilton’s head, fallen between his shoulders, the black curtain of Hamilton’s hair. The wide spread of Hamilton’s knees, the white candle-wax chunks of scar tissue in Hamilton’s arms from the war. Commanding officer, lawyer, Secretary in Washington’s government. The man fights the rest of Congress to a standstill _on his own,_ and he still feels like he’s got his back to the wall.

Burr reaches out. Down the back line of the tie past the double hitch there’s a wide handle of rope, and with it he can put tension on the lines. Forward on Hamilton’s cock. Backwards on Hamilton’s neck. Break him with pleasure or pain, as easy as a twitch in the fingertips. Burr rests his hand there, lets himself hold Hamilton trembling and helpless for a moment.

Then he undoes the ropes.

He draws the lines from Hamilton slowly, letting the rope rasp and burn over Hamilton’s skin as he does. He knows how that will feel; measures it carefully, the reminders, at Hamilton’s throat and shaft and wrists of what Burr might have done to him. _And there will be time,_ Burr reminds himself, beating down the lurch of desire in his stomach, _time and time again –_

When he finishes he comes around in front of Hamilton and sits down, winding the rope back up. Hamilton blinks at him owlishly, those bruised eyes intelligent and curious in Hamilton’s tired face.

“That’s it?” Hamilton asks, after a moment.

Burr raises his eyebrows. “You think I want Jefferson’s sloppy seconds?” His tone is bland but the joke is obvious enough that Hamilton laughs, flopping back into a more relaxed position on the floor.

“Seriously, Aaron.”

_My first name. Well, that’s something._

“Seriously.” Burr considers Hamilton for a moment, then tells him, “I don’t have any interest in breaking you.”

“It would make me easier to defeat in court – “

“I’m a better lawyer than you.”

They share a grin over that, as well. Hamilton, entirely unabashed by his nakedness, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “So… why?”

 _Because this is just an opening move,_ Burr thinks. _Because this is the first step in a very long dance, Alexander Hamilton, and there’s more power in putting things together then taking them apart. Because when I **do** finally have you under me, begging, it will be your full and undivided self._

Out loud, he says, “You needed to talk about it. You couldn’t let yourself. You’re very strong, Alexander.” He allows himself the luxury of that, Hamilton’s first name, tasting it on his tongue like it’s just slightly profane. _Time for that, too. Time to call him anything I want. Alexander. Alex._ Burr shoves it down and continues without a pause, “You might have hurt yourself and managed to hide it from everyone else.”

Hamilton flushes, embarrassed but taking the flattery as happily as a dog wolfing down treats. _Easy,_ Burr thinks, but doesn’t say.

“It wasn’t a problem,” Hamilton says, finally. He even manages to sound like he means it.

“Of course.” Burr smiles at Hamilton. “You’re nothing if not resilient.”

Hamilton’s eyes flash at the praise, and Burr feels a slow, predatory joy in his stomach. He knows his smile gives away nothing. Hamilton, anyways, is incapable of subtlety. He wouldn’t understand what Burr’s started here even if Burr told him.

“I should go,” Burr says, getting to his feet. “I hope I haven’t distracted you from your work too long.”

Hamilton clambers to his feet as well, grinning unabashedly. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He steps forward with a recklessness that looks like impulse, and takes Burr’s face in both hands.

Alexander Hamilton, Burr notes with a faint and disassociated shock, can be _devastating_ when he wants to be _._ He kisses like a force of nature, like he can pull Burr apart with nothing but his teeth and the wicked twists of his tongue. When Burr presses back into it Hamilton moans, a soft little sound that makes Burr’s stomach drop out through his knees. His fingertips dig into Burr’s skull, and he grinds their bodies tight together, the soft hitches in his breathing making it clear he has been demolished just as thoroughly as Burr –

Then he’s pulling back, grinning, running his lower lip through his teeth with a impetuous exhale. “See you in court,” he says, with one last press of his palm against Burrs jaw before he turns away.

 _Jefferson,_ Burr thinks, dizzily, _has no idea what he’s missing._

No matter how long a game Burr has to play, it’s going to end with Alexander Hamilton in his bed. Naked, helpless, entirely willing.

And entirely _his._

 

10.

Burr shuts the door of Washington’s office behind him and Washington looks up, frowning. “Mister Burr.”

“Washington.”

There’s a moment of chilly silence. “Can I help you?”

“I know what you gave the Virginians,” Burr says steadily, holding Washington’s gaze, “And you have no right to trade away what isn’t yours.”

If Washington’s voice was cold before, it’s absolutely frozen now. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning.”

“Really? You should.”

“If this is about –“

“Hamilton. It’s about Hamilton.” Burr doesn’t flinch. “You do that again, Mister President, and I assure you, I will know.” He doesn’t wait for Washington’s response. “I appreciate you think I am not a threat to your position. But I am.” Washington’s black eyes flash, but Burr isn’t afraid of fire. He feels a stillness inside him, deep water, slow motion, steady, implacable waves. “Believe me when I say I wish you never find out what I mean when I say this. But if Alexander Hamilton is forced to anyone’s bed, ever again, I will show you.” He bows. “That will be all, sir.”

And he shuts the door on his way out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I said this was over after Chapter 2 but that's definitely a lie and now we're locked in this ride together.

The halls of Congress.

“Burr?” Alexander Hamilton’s voice is soft, almost wondering. “When did you become a Democratic-Republican?”

Burr turns on his heel and there is Alexander, his hair undone, a slight frown on his parted lips. His brows quirk towards the centre of his forehead. He doesn’t understand yet what’s happening. His face is slack and there might be betrayal, there, maybe. If Burr looked for it.

He won’t let himself. “Since being one got my political career back on track,” he says steadily. He meets Hamilton’s eyes like it doesn’t mean anything to him. Underneath the mask of his face Burr is seething. _Hadn’t meant for it to happen like this._ He’d meant to go by the office, some night, when Eliza was out of town. Asleep. He might have explained –

Too late, now. It was a miscalculation: he should have known Hamilton would move quickly. “They don’t trust you upstate, Hamilton. They don’t like you.” A warning.

Hamilton takes it the wrong way, of course. _Of course._ “I always considered you a friend, Burr – “

And underneath it, unspoken, that night. The black of the ropes against his wrists. Tear stains on his face as he says, _I begged, Burr, I did everything they asked me to and I **loved** it – _

_How could you do this to me?_ The words are as obvious in Hamilton’s eyes as if they’d been written there. Alexander Hamilton hasn’t learned to hide anything: fourteen years since 1776 and his unlined hands spread on that dining room table and he _still_ hasn’t learned to keep his thoughts off his face.

“I don’t see why that has to change,” Burr replies, softly. _Trust me,_ he wants to tell Hamilton. _I will be close to them, I will know, their moves, when they **look** at you wrong, when Washington – _He doesn’t say anything: Hamilton should know. Hamilton should figure it out on his own. He’s smart enough: besides, the walls of Congress whisper, and Burr can’t trust that anything they say will stay between them. Better for Hamilton to be wounded now than taken unawares by Jefferson later, better for Hamilton to mistake him than Jefferson to know his true intentions. Burr firms his shoulders up and lifts his chin, wiping all expression from his face. _Let me be cold,_ he thinks, _let anyone watching assume I don’t care –_

Hurt whips through Hamilton’s face as quick and vicious as a dart. “Don’t you?”

“My politics have nothing to do with our relationship.”

“Your _politics – “_ Hamilton starts, furiously, then makes a violent gesture with one hand like he’s cutting himself off. “I’m still wondering exactly what those are, Burr,” he finishes, somewhat lamely. It wasn’t what he meant to say.

 _Ah yes._ Burr smiles tightly. In the halls of congress, one can’t say, _how dare you stand with the men who took me to bed so brutally._ “I look forward to working with you, Mister Secretary,” he comments, with wry humour.

Hamilton doesn’t get the joke. “Senator,” he spits, at Burr’s feet.

It sounds like a curse.

***

Jefferson, of course, is delighted.

“ _Mister_ Burr,” he declares, grinning widely, seizing Burr’s hand. “What a _pleasure._ ”

It’s still between them; that night in the tavern, Jefferson’s gloating smile underneath his wine-dark eyes. Burr knows they’re both feeling the weight of it. In his grip Jefferson’s fingers are cold and soft, and his handshake is firm. Burr lets go, resisting the urge to wipe his palm on his trousers, and watches as Jefferson takes his seat back at the table.

In the other chair, Madison lounges: calm and quiet as always, his handkerchief laid out in front of him in case a fit of coughing interrupts. Burr watches Madison carefully: he doesn’t know anything about the man, and that’s enough to make him nervous.

If anyone can appreciate a well-fitted mask of innocuousness, it’s Burr. Madison gives him the shivers.

“Hamilton must have been _so_ disappointed,” Jefferson says as he waves to the waiter, watching Burr carefully for his reaction.

Burr smiles and takes his seat at the table across from Madison. _Too obvious._ Jefferson will have to do better than that. “I don’t know if I’ll have an opportunity to work closely with him, but we ran into each other briefly this morning. He offered his congratulations.” He keeps his voice cool. Madison shifts, exchanging a look with Jefferson, and Burr feels something in his stomach clench tight. Instead of saying anything he hoists the case at his side up onto table and starts pulling out the papers he’s prepared on the next meeting of Congress.

There’s a brief interruption as the waiter comes back to distribute food and drink. Case snapped shut, Burr takes the opportunity to size up the room. It’s quiet in the inn Jefferson’s chosen, a few men at the tables on the opposing wall but nobody else sharing the booths in the back. The food smells good, if simple, and the waiter doesn’t linger to listen in over their conversation.

It’s perfectly discreet and private. Burr supposes Jefferson has practice arranging meetings that no one should listen in on.

Even as that thought is forming in his mind, Jefferson asks, “So you’re no longer his patron saint, then?” sharp with predatory interest. Burr looks up and finds Jefferson surveying him, eyes narrow and one thumb stroking his lip.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Burr replies blandly.

“You certainly seemed interested in defending him before.”

“Mister Secretary – “

“ _Both_ of you,” Madison interrupts. His low voice somehow cuts across Burr effortlessly. He doesn’t move: he’s examining his fingernails, leaned back in his chair with one ankle on his knee. Somehow, the threat is still obvious. Burr licks his lips, and sees Jefferson run a hand through his curls as if trying to convince them all of his nonchalance. “We have business to attend to,” Madison insists, staring them both down. “If you want to have this conversation later…” he trails off into silence.

After a moment, Jefferson tosses his head, making his curls bounce. “Of course,” he drawls, “Can’t let the Creole bastard get by us again…”

And so the conversation moves on. _Politics._

But Burr still feels Jefferson’s eyes prickling on the back of his neck, boring a hole through him, bright with malice and curiosity. _So you’re no longer his patron saint._ Burr can feel the malevolent weight of Jefferson’s mind churning under and over and around the words of their conversation; in all the silences, in the still places, when he stops to sip his wine or cut himself a bite of food.

 _He’s thinking about Hamilton._ Burr’s stomach clenches again at the thought. _Wondering what his next move should be._

 _A long game,_ he’d promised. And not an easy one to win.

***

***

Step One.

*

Build up to the next cabinet meeting and congress is scrambling, trying to assemble all the points of argument beforehand so they’re prepared for the inevitable fiasco. No one’s said _remember what happened last time_ out loud, yet, but they’re all thinking it. Shooting glances at Hamilton out of the corners of their eyes and skirting wide around the door to the Secretary of State’s office.

Hamilton could tell them not to bother. Jefferson’s not _there._ Hamilton should know. He’s tried three different times this week to set up a meeting, and _nothing._ Jefferson is out. He’s indisposed. He’s _busy,_ Hamilton, he doesn’t have _time_ for you.

Hamilton sits on the corner of the congress’s floor with his forehead in the palm of his hand and watches the runners go, around and around in circles. He’s stewing. He knows it. In a moment all the rough, serrated energy in his thighs is going to burst out and he’s going to have to go bounding across the room, hunting down a pen and paper so he can throw his own argument into the fray. He _knows_ what they have to do; everyone does, they’re just waiting for someone to put it in words. Who better than Hamilton?

It’ll outrage Jefferson.

That may be why he hasn’t done it yet.

Hamilton sighs and changes position in his chair, picking at a scrap of dead skin beside his fingernail. It’d be one thing if he had someone to talk to about this. Washington. Eliza. Burr. But Washington’s pulling the same run-around that Jefferson is, and things with Eliza haven’t been the same since – well. Since. Anyways, she’s got Phillip to deal with, a household to run, the garden and the business of making them all look respectable. How’s Hamilton supposed to bring up _this_ with Eliza? _Hello, Phillip. Give me and your mother a moment, would you? No, nothing's wrong. Daddy's just been having dreams where the Secretary of State cards long fingers through his hair and says, “that’s it, boy. You’re doing so well.” Would you mind running along now, so Daddy can ask your mother how she feels about sodomy, and if she might consider a violet gown for her wardrobe next year?_

Ridiculous. Eliza’s out of the question.

Which leaves Burr.

Hamilton grimaces just thinking about it. _Senator_ Burr, now. Aaron Burr (no sir, not from Hamilton, not anymore) with his extensive collection of rope and his wicked, cool intensity. _Democratic Republican_ Aaron Burr –

Fury roils in Hamilton’s stomach like acid. _How **could** he? _ There’s no way of getting around it. It’s betrayal, pure and simple. There’d been that night, whatever it was, and that scorching, unbelievable kiss. Then Burr had gone and did what he always does, crawling into bed with whoever suited him best. _Literally? Don’t think about it._ Hamilton groans, curling over in his chair until his forearms are braced on his thighs and his head’s nearly between his knees. He scrubs his hands over his face. He should have expected it. Should have known. It’s Aaron Burr, after all. _If you stand for nothing Burr –_

How far have they even come, from that night? And then, unasked for, shoving into Hamilton’s brain alongside the image of Burr, young and smiling in ’76, the smooth unforgiving wood of Jefferson’s desk looms up. Acidic spit floods Hamilton’s mouth like he’s going to be sick, and the two images superimpose on each other. Jefferson’s fingers card in Hamilton’s hair. Burr asks, _Can I buy you a drink,_ looking curious and just a little scared, like he’s never met anyone quite like Hamilton before. Then it’s a mess, a tangle again. Hamilton drowns, trying to find a thread to pull himself out on. The night of Hamilton’s wedding, Lafayette groans, _you are the worst, Burr,_ and there’s a protective surge in Hamilton’s chest as he sees Burr start to sag. Hamilton’s body goes limp in helpless delight at the shame of Jefferson’s touch. _Fools who run their mouths off wind up dead,_ Burr warns, careful and concerned. _Sir,_ he says, with his secret smile that’s just-for-Hamilton _. It’s sir tonight._

_Please, sir, my whore mouth –_

At that particular juxtaposition, Hamilton thinks he makes an involuntary pained sound, but he can’t be sure. His brain just won’t _stop._

Next thing he knows he’s on his feet and striding across the floor of Congress with no memory of standing up out of his chair. Hamilton watches his own hand snap out and grab a young aide above the elbow, curiously far away. The young man’s eyes go wide. Hamilton supposes his grip is painful. He can’t help it. Every nerve in his body is thrumming with feverish, barely contained electricity.

“Bring a fresh stack of paper and a pen to my office,” he hears himself say. God knows the supply in there’s low, and there’s so much he has to do.

 _Writing will outrage Jefferson,_ something whispers in Hamilton’s chaotic head, and he growls back, _Good._ Sure, Jefferson will be on the floor in Cabinet with his slow lazy smile and his condescending eyes. And yes, it will be the first time they’ve faced off since – since.

But Hamilton hasn’t backed down from a fight yet.

 _And_ _there’ll be outrage, sure. There’ll be hatred. But there might also be that wild flash of appreciation – that sure knowledge that Jefferson’s quicksilver, flechette-sharp mind has caught what I am trying to do, that he **sees** me – there might even be admiration, if I speak well enough –_

Hamilton thinks he’s going to be sick: bad enough with Aaron Burr, now his own brain’s betraying him. He can’t possibly mean that. He can’t possibly even be thinking it. He swallows hard and releases the aide, watches the boy skip off over the floor towards the other end of Congress. _I don’t want it,_ he tells himself. Jefferson’s admiration is worthless. The man isn’t anything but a puffed up shirt who had the good luck to write a few good words about independence.

If only he wasn’t so persuasive in front of a crowd.

And _tall_.

***

“Hamilton.”

Pocketing his keys after locking his office, Hamilton jumps and spins guiltily around as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been. The quick movement is a mistake. The papers pinned beneath his left arm slide dangerously, and Hamilton contorts: trying to snatch them all back up again before they scatter. He should really buy a case –

But he hadn’t had the foresight to. Flushed with embarrassment and feeling like a mess, Hamilton shoves the last of the papers back into place using the muscle of his thigh and presses them a little tighter between his forearm and his chest. His face feels terribly hot, strands of hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead as he snaps reprovingly at Burr, “You didn’t have to come back. I thought we’d said everything that needed saying.”

The angry tone of his voice doesn’t go quite far enough to cover his embarrassment. Hamilton can see that in the way Burr’s lips twitch, as if the man wants to smile and doesn’t quite dare. _Can’t even take a stand on what he finds funny._

“Thought I’d see if you needed help carrying anything.”

Hamilton’s mood’s been awful all day. It’s plummeting down towards _miserable,_ and Burr isn’t helping. “Very funny, Mister Burr. If you’ll excuse me – “

He starts off down the hall and Burr, not taking the hint, falls in beside him. “I want to talk to you, Hamilton.”

 _“Mister Secretary,”_ Hamilton corrects, not bothering – or not daring – to look at Burr. It’s considered impolitic to start fistfights in government buildings, after all. Even if Burr’s presence _burns_ at him. Every step they take Burr’s bootheels ring against the polished marble floor and Hamilton can _hear_ the words. _How could you. How could you. How could you._

“Mister Secretary,” Burr accepts, calmly. “Will you call me Senator, then?”

“In your dreams.”

They round the corner and Burr must realize then that they’re heading towards Washington’s office because he takes a quick step and ends up sliding in front of Hamilton, squaring him off from the rest of the hall. “Alexander, please. I need to speak with you before this Cabinet meeting.”

Hamilton finds himself looking at the bright buttons on Burr’s waistcoat again. Then the cool white marble of the floors. Then, quite calmly, he lets his gaze drift over Burr’s shoulder to the gleaming golden handle of Washington’s door. He catches a flash of Burr’s face on the way, nothing more than a blurred impression of brown skin and worried grooves at the edges of Burr’s mouth. “I have nothing to say,” Hamilton tells the middle distance. It’s not like him. He should be screaming. He will be, later. Maybe not in Congress; not where his shame can be kicked about the hallways until it has left a stain on everything. Somewhere where his legacy doesn’t hang in the balance.

_If you’d come to me – my office, late at night, we might have – there has to be a reason, you can’t have **abandoned** me for them – I won’t let you – _

Burr says, “I will have the President make a note of your speechlessness, seeing as it’s undoubtedly a unique moment in the history of our nation.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence. _Did he just…_ Then Hamilton blinks and finally meets Burr’s eyes. Burr is smiling; a little crooked, one side of his mouth quirked up more than the other. Hamilton founders. He’s meant to be angry, he knows. He _is_ angry. He’s furious. In a moment, he’s going to tear Burr apart. But there’s that expression –

“Alexander,” Burr repeats, that soft and intimate usage of Hamilton’s Christian name, “Please.”

 _Okay. Okay._ Hamilton can be the bigger man here. He opens his mouth to tell Burr so –

But Burr’s not finished. “Jefferson said you might be amicable to –“

And Hamilton’s mouth snaps shut so fast it makes an audible click.

Before Burr can continue his sentence Hamilton shakes his head viciously to clear it and spits – quick and sharp, each syllable clear and loud off his tongue like trumpet notes – “It’s hard enough to get away from Jefferson’s voice when it’s only coming out of _one_ mouth. And since I get to chose, I’ll take the pretty lips over the sloppy seconds. He can tell me _himself_ what he thinks I’d be _amicable_ to.”

Burr shuts up instantly. He looks taken aback. A fierce, joyless satisfaction fills Hamilton’s throat and he starts forward again, knocking his shoulder hard against Burr’s as he pushes past. Burr falls back a step, caught off balance. Serve him right. Serve him _goddamn_ right.

“That’s not what I –“ he starts, but Hamilton doesn’t listen. Hamilton is seething. _Jefferson said you might be amicable to._ Oh, Hamilton _bets._ Hamilton bets Jefferson said he was amicable to a whole _number_ of things. Trust Burr to _listen._

By the time Burr’s recovered enough to start moving Hamilton’s already at the door to Washington’s office, practically buzzing off his feet. He hauls the heavy oak door open without knocking (prerogative of being the Right Hand of the President) and slams it tight behind him, snapping a wall of wood between him and the hallway. There’s a vicious sound that cuts off Burr’s raised voice, locking it out of the richly carpeted room into the marble-floored hallway where it belongs. _Good. Let him rot,_ Hamilton thinks. _If he keeps his senate job for a **week** I’m not half the writer I think I am – _

“Hamilton,” a warm voice says from Washington’s desk, “Isn’t this a surprise.”

This time, the papers do slide out of Hamilton’s hands. They pour over his boots and stockings like a waterfall, pooling around him on the ground. A vast, meaningless flow of words: an endless treatise on foreign affairs and economic stability and the necessity of nation-building. All very smart and logical, when Hamilton wrote them. All jumbled and meaningless now, papers messed together without hope of sorting. _1776 and 1790 colliding._ Hamilton turns.

Jefferson unfolds himself slowly from where he’s been leaning on Washington’s desk. He’s holding a book in his hands; as Hamilton watches Jefferson folds it carefully shut and sets it down beside Washington’s lamp, just to the left of Washington’s pens. As if he had every right. As if this was his place as much as Washington’s.

Hamilton feels himself quiver in something like fury. “Jefferson.”

“ _Mister Secretary_ ,” Jefferson corrects, smiling. The echo of Hamilton’s own words is bitter and shameful, and Hamilton feels it wash over him like a physical thing, like oil slicking his skin. “Or, if you prefer, we could go back to _sir.”_ And there’s Burr’s words, coming back to haunt Hamilton. Christ. _Birds of a feather,_ Hamilton thinks.

Jefferson is eyeing Hamilton with something that looks disgustingly like interest, running his eyes over Hamilton’s new emerald-green waistcoat with one eyebrow raised. Hamilton smooths his hands down the sides, wishing instantly he’d worn something a little less flashy. Nevermind that Jefferson’s wearing vivid violet again: it suits him. Hamilton doesn’t have that damned southern nonchalance. He must look gaudy. _Bastard. Immigrant._ He _feels_ gaudy, now that Jefferson’s sizing him up. _Son of a whore._ Hamilton curses himself for not selecting a drabber shade of green. Forest might have been safe, maybe –

Then he bites his tongue and tries to swallow the thought. _Nobody tells me what to wear._

_but there is the sharp silver sound of the knife as it scrapes over his skin – they are **cutting** him free of the clothes, they are stripping him down, they are making him nothing –_

Hamilton shivers, despite the fact that the room seems to be getting warmer.

“Did you like that, then, pet?” Jefferson asks, eyes snapping with malicious glee. “Should you be calling me sir?”

Hamilton straightens so fast it might as well give him whiplash, his chin jerking into the air. “I’d still rather fuck a horse, thanks.”

“Bit small for that, aren’t you. See, I remember – ”

And this time Hamilton actually snarls, like an animal in a trap. “Too far, Jefferson,” he starts, blind to anything but his anger. Washington might frown on duels, but Washington can take it up with him later. Congress will function better without Thomas Jefferson anyways. Hamilton will function better. The Union can’t afford to put up with tyrannical despots or sycophants. Jefferson and Burr and Madison should be hanged for treason just for breathing, and if Hamilton has to do that on a duelling field, so be it. _And if it helps me escape from my own dreams – nightmares –_ “I demand satisfaction –“

“Ah,” Jefferson murmurs. “That’s right. You didn’t get it, last time.”

Hamilton breathes in so sharply it seems to cut the tense air in front of him. Jefferson’s dark eyes snap up and fix him, like a butterfly on a pin.

Jefferson is smiling, his pupils blown – or maybe his irises have always been one step away from black – and there is a keen thread of malice and anticipation wound through his face. “Go on, then. Demand _satisfaction_ of me. I’ll even promise to give it to you.” He slides forward soundlessly across the floor, and the smell of his skin hits Hamilton like a blow. “I’ve been thinking about you, Alex,” Jefferson says, in that low promising voice like cats paws. “Begging. So far gone you couldn’t even count to ten.”

Hamilton shivers again. Trembles. Something. He has to bite the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood just to stay upright as Jefferson looms over him, has to tilt his head back to look up into Jefferson’s black eyes. “You _know_ it’s a normal human response to pain,” he forces himself to say, his voice tight. He hopes it sounds like anger. “Of course I wasn’t going to be able to –“

“So you _are_ only human! See, _I_ thought you were _smarter_ than the rest of us lowly mortals.” Jefferson’s jeering, close enough now that his exhales brush against the strands of hair on Hamilton’s forehead, making them stroke and tickle his skin. “But look – I’m generous. I’m willing to forgive you. All you have to do is ask, Alex.”

_Please, sir._

It sticks in Hamilton’s throat and he wants to be sick, again. His stomach is doing slow lazy backflips, turning over and over in an not-altogether-unpleasant way. His skin is warm. He seems preternaturally aware of that; the current of air in the room, how it’s still on him, how it’s disturbed by the presence of Jefferson’s body. _And if Washington were to pin me against the door like this, I would feel_ There’s a soft rustling sound as his treatise crushes underneath Jefferson’s shoes. _1776_ _and that closed-off command tent in the revolutionary war and the smooth wood of Jefferson’s desk._ Hamilton’s head is packed too tight; full up of too many bits of information and sensation. He feels himself tremor again, knows it for the movement of the earth before a quake.

“Jefferson,” he starts, corrects himself, “Sir – “ if only because it’s more likely to convince Jefferson to listen. And he means to say _move away from me,_ he thinks, but he’s not altogether sure.

And there’s the sound of the door latch, clicking open.

Jefferson reacts in the same heartbeat as Hamilton, whirling himself with a dancer’s grace and a flare of purple silk over to the fireplace. His long legs close the distance in two strides – _fast,_ Hamilton remembers – and then he’s reaching a hand up for the mantle and leaning forward. Take a breath and Jefferson looks like he’s been idling over the fire all day. Fast thinker –

Hamilton, on the other hand, froze. At the worst possible moment.

Washington nearly trips over him, coming in the room. Hamilton feels himself flush – _again!_ he thinks, hating himself a little bit for it. “Mister President,” he says, hoping it comes out calm.

Washington looks very slowly down at the pile of papers around Hamilton’s feet, one of them bearing the distinct imprint of Jefferson’s shoe. “Secretary Hamilton,” Washington says, slowly. There’s a little bit of weight on the edges of his voice, and Hamilton can feel the threat in it: _Explain yourself._ Jefferson looks up from the fireplace with wicked amusement as Hamilton straightens his shoulders.

“I brought a few thoughts on the French treaty to share with you before the Cabinet meeting.”

“And you thought the location best suited to them was my floor?”

If Hamilton’s spine was straight before, now it’s a length of steel pipe from the base of his skull straight down to the floor. He’s rigid, under Washington’s criticism, Jefferson’s mocking scrutiny. “My mistake.” It comes out in the same tone of voice he used to use to respond to orders in the army. Hamilton winces when he hears it, and catches Washington doing the same. It’s an old habit, and it never speaks well for the rest of their conversation. Hamilton grits his teeth. _Never did manage to snap to attention for long before getting in trouble._

Washington presses his fingers to his temples. He knows the fight’s coming, too. Maybe that’s why he’s been avoiding Hamilton. There’s a cut over his knuckle, third finger, left hand, the split skin dark with scabbing. “Just… Clean that up, son,” Washington sighs. Hamilton nods, not entirely trusting himself to speak. He might start shouting. Washington’s eyes find his for a moment, and the President’s face is – like always – inscrutable. It might be pity, in there. Hamilton feels his jaw firm. He doesn’t want Washington’s pity, anymore.

Whatever Washington sees in Hamilton’s face, it makes him sigh again. He turns to his desk, still rubbing at what must be a burgeoning migraine in his temples. As he does, he finally seems to notice that Jefferson is in the room. “Thomas.” Washington frowns as he says it, his hand dropping back to his side.

Jefferson’s voice is sweet and thick as molasses. “You asked to see me, Mister President.” He folds his arms over his chest and leans against the wall by the fireplace. There’s a care about his posture now. It’s just as languid and studiously insouciant as it had been before Washington walked in the room, but now…

Hamilton is put in the mind of large cats, before they pounce. The fluid-and-tense contradictory appearance of a puma when its curling down to strike. When he bends to start collecting up his papers, Jefferson’s presence tingles at the back of his neck like the evil eye.

“I did,” Washington says, inflectionless. It could be a question. Jefferson nods. “Hmm.”

Hamilton quickly ducks his head and shovels papers into his arms as fast as he dares. He can sort them out later. If there is a later. He can feel Washington’s attention on him, almost as thick and heavy as Jefferson’s, and for once it isn’t a comforting thing. Hamilton can half feel the storm clouds brewing above Washington’s desk, sucking in static electricity and scenting the air with ozone. They’re going to be screaming tonight. Hamilton knows it.

_How dare you._

“It can wait,” Washington decides, finally. “Shut the door on your way out, Thomas.”

Much to Hamilton’s surprise, Jefferson doesn’t argue. “Mister President,” he says, with the ghost of a simper and a sweep of his long coat into a bow. As he brushes past Hamilton on the way to the door his hem sucks up a piece of paper and Jefferson catches it neatly with his long fingers.

Hamilton straightens, holding out a hand for it wordlessly. He doesn’t think about Jefferson’s fingers. At least, not more than he can stop.

“ _We have no obligation to France,”_ Jefferson reads out loud, “ _Or at least none that could be considered legally binding…_ Well, well, Alex.” He looks up from the loose sheet of paper to meet Hamilton’s eyes, and this time his face is absolutely cold. There’s something cruel playing about the edges of his full lips, something merciless in the narrowing of his eyes. “I look forward to our next discussion in Cabinet.” He doesn’t move to give the paper back.

“Jefferson,” Hamilton says, still holding out his hand for it. He’s aware of Washington watching. He thinks they both are.

“Sir,” Jefferson says, his eyes locked on Hamilton’s. Anyone else might take it for acknowledgement. Jefferson passes the paper over, and his nod in Hamilton’s direction is nothing short of polite. But Hamilton _knows._ He feels it under his skin, burning, eating him up. The shame, the humiliation…

_The promise? If you demand satisfaction –_

The door shuts behind Jefferson, and Hamilton feels Washington’s fingers brush at the back of his neck. He shuts his eyes.

“Tell me,” Washington says.

Burr’s words. Again. Hamilton opens his eyes and stares unseeingly forward, at the closed door, at the meaningless words on the paper in his hands. “They asked me to beg,” he starts, mechanically, like he did the last time.

“And you did.”

“Yes.”

“For the Union.”

“Yes.”

There’s a callous on Washington’s thumb and he rubs it over a spot on the back of Hamilton’s neck, where the bone is closest to the surface. “For me,” he says.

 _Lord,_ Hamilton thinks.

He licks his lips. “Yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that I am absolutely painfully Canadian and have 0 idea how your weird government works

“Hamilton.” Washington doesn’t quite step inside the tent but he runs the back of his knuckles over the door-flap, and Alexander knows from the shape of his bones who it is. “Get out here. I need you.”

Hamilton is on his feet in a heartbeat; grimacing at the cold ground and scrambling for his trousers. It’s before dawn. The birds aren’t even singing yet, but Washington’s shadow is silhouetted in gold on the tent: there must be an aide with him, holding a lamp. He looms large over the canvas, hovering over Hamilton as Hamilton tugs his shirt over his head. It’s not two seconds and the black of Washington’s shadow is already rippling and swaying as he shifts impatiently. Hamilton spares a swift internal curse, smothering a yawn. Whatever brought Washington here, it’s important. Hamilton casts around for his boots. _How can I possibly lose things in a tent the size of –_

And the man in Hamilton’s bed rolls over, groaning. “What _time_ is it?”

_Shit._

Hamilton forgot about him. What was his name? Brown? White? Some sort of colour –

 _Greene,_ Hamilton decides, with very little idea if that’s right or not. “Time to go,” he says briskly, over his shoulder. Greene blinks at him owlishly, a few strands of hair sticking up against the pillows. Hamilton shoots a scowl back. “Come on. You can’t stay here.”

“Jesus, it’s not even bright yet – “

Hamilton and Greene’s boots are in the same place, tossed over beside a stack of loose paper. Hamilton throws Greene’s boots in the direction of the bed, not watching to see where they land. “Get dressed, Greene.”

Indignant eyes peek out of him over the blankets. “My name’s _Clinton._ James Clinton.”

 _Not even close._ Hamilton grimaces, rubbing his fingers over his eyelids. He’d apologize, but honestly, it’s too early in the morning for that. The air smells crisp and wet, like dew, and Washington is waiting. “Will you just get _moving?”_

Hamilton follows a very disgruntled Clinton out the tent flap thirty-six seconds later and runs square into the back of his commanding officer. He bounces off, nearly trips over his own feet, and shoves himself clumsily upright. Washington doesn’t even rock on his heels. He turns to face Hamilton, unfazed, raising his eyebrows as he takes in Hamilton’s dishevelled appearance. And Gr – _Clinton,_ hopping a step as he tugs on his boots.

Hamilton flushes. “General Washington – “

Washington doesn’t comment. It’s beneath him: he doesn’t even seem to notice Hamilton’s flush. Hamilton’s not sure if that’s a good thing. Washington’s face is thoughtful, his hands tucked into a pair of kid-leather gloves against the morning chill. “Soldier,” he says, to Clinton.

Clinton salutes crisply. “Sir.”

Without even a pause, Washington continues, “You’re dismissed,” and Clinton snaps somewhat awkwardly out of his salute. He shoots a parting glance at Hamilton. There aren’t a few rumours about Washington and Hamilton: now Clinton knows for certain that _bedmate_ ranks lower in Hamilton’s personal hierarchy of importance than Washington does.

 _Well, shouldn’t it? He’s my commander –_ Even to himself, Hamilton sounds defensive. He can feel his face getting hotter, and thanks God when Clinton wheels on his heel and stomps out of sight between the tents.

He doesn’t get the chance to relax, though. Washington is frowning at him. “Hamilton,” Washington says crisply. “Walk with me.” He turns as well, and sets off in the other direction. At least there’s no trace of disapproval in his voice. His feet leave tracks in the dew-soaked grass, little limnings of silver against the green.

Hamilton lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. _At least I’m so invisible to him he doesn’t notice how embarrassing I am,_ he thinks, and asks – “What do you need, sir?” – falling into step with Washington. They make their way between the shivering tan walls of the army’s tents. If they have a direction in mind, Hamilton can’t tell: but they’re moving quickly. Washington walks like a man on a mission. Hamilton has to take two steps for every one of his, hopping and jogging along like an excitable terrier around the feet of a great dane.

“You,” Washington says, in response to Hamilton’s question. He doesn’t look around; his eyes stay glued forward. In profile, his lashes are long; sweeping elegantly from his dark eyes, the firm curve of his set mouth. Hamilton’s heart briefly nose-dives into his stomach, but before he can even nervously swallow Washington is frowning again. “I’ve got a problem and I can’t seem to solve it on my own.”

Hamilton doesn’t quite groan, although he has to swallow it. Of course it’s a logistical problem, and nothing more… intimate. Washington has a habit of being incredibly frustrating like that. A year of working together. Living together. They’ve even slept in the same _room_ whenever the army camped near an inn, and – _nothing._ And it’s not as though Washington doesn’t know what Hamilton _is_. He can hardly claim ignorance on that point: Hamilton’s always had a reputation, he’s not ashamed of that. There were even a few regrettable nights early in the campaign where he was intentionally indiscrete about noise. Besides, the general isn’t exactly afraid of pointing him in the right direction. So to speak.

_If he’d just have the balls to fuck me himself –_

It’s the world’s wicked sense of humour that _Alexander Hamilton,_ of all people, ended up with an extremely married and extremely _straight_ commanding officer. One with an incredible strong, broad chest. And great thigh muscles. And –

_Oh, hell._

He’s looking at Hamilton expectantly.

“Sorry, sir?”

“I want you to draft a letter to Lafayette immediately. I need someone to take the lead. There’s a battalion that going out, and I need someone I trust in charge.”

“Sir, if you’d allow me…”

“No.”

“But sir – “

“Hamilton, I said _no.”_ The whip-crack of Washington’s voice silences Hamilton instantly. Immediately, though, Washington softens. He reaches out and rests a hand on the back of Hamilton’s neck. Tension drains out of Hamilton’s body like it’s a natural, physical response to Washington’s touch. He sighs, leaning into it, and feel’s Washington’s grip tighten: just for a heartbeat. Then the pressure ebbs off again. “Have you considered,” Washington asks quietly, “That we need you here? _I_ need you here.”

 _I need you._ All thoughts of insisting on a command again instantly leave Hamilton’s head. Washington needs him. Of course he’ll stay.

***

1790 –

_For you._

Hamilton feels himself relax into Washington’s touch. “How –“ his voice breaks, and he tries again. “How long have you known?” he asks.

“Since the war,” Washington says. _Of course._ He doesn’t take his hand away. His finger strokes again, along Hamilton’s spine. He could crack it, with a sharp motion of his wrist, leaving Hamilton unable to walk. Broken, confined to a chair, Washington’s helpless thing. He could still work, as long as he could hold a pen: Washington doesn’t need him able to walk. _All he needs from me is my ability to write._ Hamilton shudders.

He can’t stop himself from talking, though. His mouth doesn’t seem to stop moving, despite his knees going weak. “You could have said something. I would have hid it better – “

“Son,” Washington cuts him off, amused, “Why would you think I wanted you to hide it?”

Hamilton shuts his eyes. _Oh, God._ “I thought you didn’t want…”

“I’m glad that you are loyal to me as your commanding officer and as your president.” _Oh. That’s not –_ “I appreciate everything you have done.” Washington tugs the collar of Hamilton’s coat down in the back, gently, exposing another inch of skin. He must not know what it’s doing to Hamilton; how Hamilton wishes, half-paralyzed with shame at his own desire, that Washington might see the marks. “Was it bad, with Jefferson?”

With anyone else – even to himself – Hamilton might lie. But this is Washington. He swallows. “No.” Hamilton’s voice is rough. He wets his lips, and continues. “No. It wasn’t bad.” That is, in fact, exactly the problem. It hadn’t been bad. Awful, humiliating, yes – and it had left him hollow inside, completely unable to think – but if Jefferson came to his office in the middle of the night, Hamilton might – Hamilton would – _Don’t think it. Don’t even think it._

_Please sir my_

“Good,” Washington replies crisply. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Alexander.”

 _Christ, isn’t that the problem._ “Can I – “ _If I told you everything –_ “Do you want to know what they – what I – “

“ _Hamilton._ Plausible deniability.”

The tone of Washington’s voice shuts Hamilton down instantly. With an effort, Hamilton manages not to flinch. He pulls free of Washington’s hand and turns to face him. “Sir –“ he asks. His voice hasn’t gotten any better. Even to himself, Hamilton sounds half-desperate, choking on what’s trying to come out of his mouth. “Sir, _why?_ ”

Washington’s hand drops. He folds his arms behind his back, watching Hamilton with steady, implacable sternness. Hamilton wants to drop to his knees. He wants to scream at Washington, act up in his face, pace back and forth and spit accusations at Washington’s chest. _I want him to know. I want him to **see –**_ and, traitorously – _take their place? Force me down? Strike me, make me beg –_ Hamilton swallows the thought, almost as soon as it happens. It would be wrong, to take advantage of Washington’s kindness by asking him for more.

To his credit, Washington tells Hamilton simply, “Because I knew you could do it.”

And isn’t that enough? Isn’t that what Hamilton wants, after all? Doesn’t he want to be forced him to extremes, just so Washington will finally know what he’s capable of? _But you still don’t **see** me, _Hamilton thinks, staring at Washington. _How good I could be, how much I could endure for you –_

“And?” he asks.

“You have never disappointed me,” Washington tells him. Calm. Professional. “And I know you won’t start now.” He holds out a hand. “This problem with France…”

 _Right,_ Hamilton thinks, with a sharp stab of disappointment, _We were talking about Cabinet meetings, not_

_Please sir_

Hamilton swallows.

He gives Washington the paper in his hand. _We have no duty to France,_ he thinks, remembering his own words, watching Washington scan them. Jefferson’s face had gone cold. It makes Hamilton’s tongue feel thick and heavy, stopping his mouth. _Washington_ might not notice Hamilton, might not notice what he is: Jefferson will have no qualms about using it against him on the Congress floor.

The thought makes his stomach turn in nervous spirals.

***

Step Two.

***

Burr hates meetings with the Southern Democratic Republicans. He hates the thousand subtle things that exclude him from decisions. He hates how none of them trust him. All the secrets, all the real power of politics – it all goes on behind his back. _Still._ After everything he’s done.

Burr turns the wine glass in his hands back and forth, watching the soft cream of Jefferson’s table cloth being slowly covered by plate after plate of food. Madison reaches forward when the servants retreat, taking a section of roast duck from the platter. The meat steams under the silver tines of his fork.

“And how was the meeting with Washington?” Madison asks.

“I got kicked out,” Jefferson smiles, leaning back in his chair at the head of the table like it’s a throne. “Seems Daddy needed alone time with his favourite son more than he needed to talk to me.”

Burr sets his wine glass down and concentrates, very carefully, on not letting his hands curl into fists. Underneath the table he grabs at the meat of his thigh, digging his fingers in hard to the pressure point over his iliotibial band.

_Hamilton tips over out of his rational mind so quick it seems like he’s been waiting for years, he calls me sir, he mouths the word yes, yes, and self-hatred is so pure on his face it looks holy_

Thick, dull agony radiates out from the pressure, and Burr grits his teeth. It centres him, though. He breathes out. Lets go. The ache stays with him, taking a moment to fade.

“All right, Senator?” Jefferson asks, from the end of the table, a subtle thread of mocking in his voice.

Burr looks up and smiles at him opaquely. “Of course, Secretary. Please… you were saying?”

“Well, as you all know, _I_ was at Congress, _actually_ at work…”

Burr tunes Jefferson out and helps himself to the duck, taking Madison’s cue. Gravy runs down his fork, pools on the white porcelain plates. The smell of the meat is rich and delicious, and Burr feels his stomach rumble. He ignores it. There’s too much to think about, and food will only dull him. He’s keenly aware of the vulnerability of his position: the Virginians don’t trust him, Hamilton is too furious to see sense, and Washington...

Burr’s not going to think about Washington.

Better to deal with the situation at hand. He reaches for his wine glass again, taking a sip. Jefferson will pounce on any attempt on Burr’s part to subtly change the party’s course away from conflict with Hamilton: that’s a non-starter. Burr isn’t really sure how much Jefferson knows, but at the least he knows Hamilton is a weakness that Burr will defend. Much as he looks like an idiot now, running his hand through his hair, preening, Burr hasn’t forgotten. Nor had he missed what was between the lines of Hamilton’s little story.

_He told me to beg and I did, I couldn’t help it, I_

_When did you become a Democratic Republican?_

It makes Burr’s grip tighten on his glass, and he has to consciously relax. Hamilton hadn’t reckoned on being outmatched: Burr won’t make the same mistake. _With either of them,_ Burr amends, staring across the table at Madison. He sips his wine again, watching Madison coughing into his handkerchief. Madison’s dark eyes are watching Burr, his eyelashes flicking as he blinks like the hammer on a pistol. Down and up, cocked and loaded. Madison hasn’t said a word about Hamilton – difficult in itself, seeing as Jefferson brings him up every two seconds. Somehow, Madison’s managed to not have an opinion at all. Madison holds the eye contact across the table with Burr as Jefferson reaches a crescendo about Hamilton’s trousers. Or something. Burr looks away, cuts himself a bite of duck and chews it slowly, keeping his expression carefully blank. Madison’s face is perfectly expressionless. After a moment, Burr sees Madison’s head turn away in his peripheral vision.

Burr is unsure what information they’ve exchanged in the brief glance. Madison still gives him the shivers.

The two of them together are a nightmare, and the only consolation Burr has is that they’re both as wary of the President as he is. Burr’s sure of it. He can see the cagey wariness in Jefferson’s face whenever the President comes up. Oh, Jefferson can hide it. He can slip it behind that mask of cavalier vanity, pretend it doesn’t really matter to him what Washington thinks. But when it comes down to it, everyone knows what Washington is.

 _Everyone except Alexander Hamilton._ Burr swallows his bite of duck. It’s delicious, of course.

“Then he dismisses me, in front of that – “ Jefferson chokes himself off with a sly glance at Burr, and picks back up with the slur unsaid. “Anyways, I saw the Secretary’s speech. He’s showing it to Washington, too. When we go in there, boys, the thing will already have been decided.” He lifts his glass. “To France – god save it, ‘cause we sure won’t – “ and drinks.

Madison has the wry humour to drink with him, but Burr doesn’t reach for his wineglass. “You think the President has made up his mind?”

“By the time we go in that room,” Jefferson repeats, with a grimace, “Hamilton will already have won. Doing his convincing off the debate floor, again.”

“You think he has undue influence over Washington? Can’t we use that?” Burr asks, his tone deliberately innocuous despite the fact that his heart is pounding in his ears. Madison shoots him a sharp glance. Burr deliberately doesn’t meet it. Madison has suspicions, Burr’s certain of that, but there’s no need to give him any encouragement. _Hamilton means nothing to me,_ Burr repeats, in his head, hoping if he thinks it loud enough Madison will read it on his face. _I am your ally, I am your ally, I am your ally. I am trying to help you beat Washington. There is no reason to mistrust me._

Whatever caught Madison’s attention, Jefferson seems not to notice. He shakes his head, clearing his throat as he swallows another mouthful of wine. “Hamilton’s influence isn’t _undue._ It has nothing to do with his person and everything to do with his usefulness, although that isn’t for lack of trying on his part. He is, in fact – “ Jefferson smiles to himself – “Shooting _hard_ for undue. But Daddy won’t have him. Or rather, he _will_ , but in the wrong way.” A shrug. “Our dear Hamilton can’t have _everything_ he wants…”

Burr opens his mouth to prompt Jefferson further, but Madison cuts him off. “That’s enough,” he says, looking between Burr and Jefferson with a frown. “Thomas, you’re forgetting yourself.”

 _He **must** suspect something._ Burr schools his face into perfect innocence, even as Thomas scowls petulantly and starts to open his mouth. There’s an opportunity here – Burr can smell it. There’s friction between them, aching to break out into a fight. But Madison’s not stupid enough to let it happen in public, and especially not in front of Burr. _He still doesn’t trust me. But if I wasn’t in the room –_

Seizing the moment, Burr drops his napkin on the table. It draws both their attentions. _Perfect._ Burr rises easily to his feet, tugging his jacket straight. “Excuse me for a moment to relieve myself,” he says, calmly.

“End of the hall,” Madison says in polite response, with a lazy wave of his hand. He’s sly as he smiles at Burr, like he’s won a point in the subtle game they’re playing. _He thinks Jefferson’s chased me out of the room, speaking badly Hamilton._ Well, let him think it. Burr half-bows, and walks stiff-legged to the door, letting affront show in every line of his shoulders.

 _Doing a passable Hamilton impression,_ Burr thinks to himself, with quiet amusement.

He stops outside the door, with the latch just slightly undone, and waits. The house is quiet. The servants are sequestered downstairs, far away from the political conversation in the dining room. The only sound in the massive hall is Burr’s breathing. Then a clink of metal and porcelain, and finally a soft sound as Madison drags his chair around the other side of the table.

Then Jefferson says – loudly – “ _What?_ Burr?” Burr leans in to the doorframe, listening intently. His eyes slide half-closed, narrowing out every sense but sound. He can feel his fingertips tremble, and presses them into his palms. He breathes slow. Even. If he could stop his heartbeat for trying, he’d do that, too.

Finally, Burr, straining picks out Madison’s voice. Madison sounds worried; his usually methodical tone quick and clipped. “…too concerned with Hamilton. He's dangerous, Thomas. And Burr’s his friend more than ours.”

Jefferson laughs outright. “Burr’s nothing. He doesn’t have an opinion of his own – “

Burr tries not to take that personally. He opens his eyes just long enough to roll them; of course Jefferson wouldn’t understand the value of holding a hand close to your chest. _Incapable_ of subtlety, if the capes weren’t enough proof. _Like Hamilton,_ something adds, with fond exasperation. _That jacket last week – what was he thinking? ‘New York city’s too dark at night, I may as well brighten the whole place up at once?’_ Burr finds himself smiling, and swallows it.

Madison’s sharper than Jefferson, anyways. “You can’t _tie_ Burr to an opinion, Thomas. There’s a difference. I’ve heard rumours he stood up to Washington on Hamilton’s behalf.” At that, Burr stills. Because there shouldn’t be rumours. There _can’t_ have been rumours…

“Didn’t go anywhere, did it?” Jefferson replies, dismissive. “I didn’t even hear about it.”

 _Because nobody knows,_ Burr thinks. Nobody except Washington. And Madison, apparently. _How did he manage…?_

Madison sighs, exasperated, and Burr clamps viciously down on his own thoughts. “Have you considered Burr might be why Washington is yet to make his move? He’s watching Hamilton just as much as you are.”

 _And once again he’s smarter than you expected. You’re not keeping up, Burr._ Burr swallows, shutting his eyes for a moment to calm himself against the whisper of anxiety beating in his chest. _Can you do this? Take on both of them, and Washington?_

 _Does **‘can’** matter? _ Burr responds, adamantly cutting off the line of thought. _I **have** to._ He has his plans, meticulous and well-made and waiting. _And even if I were the type to forget, every meeting with the Virginians drives home how **intolerable** it would be to see Hamilton handed over to them._

Burr _will_ take them all on. He _will_ win. There are no other options.

Madison’s voice is a quick and sibilant hiss, now. “Everyone wants Hamilton in their pocket, and if Washington’s scared to lose control of –“

"We are talking about the same Hamilton, right? Have you met the man?” Jefferson interrupts, scoffing. “He'd lick my boots clean for a kind word. Maybe I'll even let him, next time I see him..."

Burr’s stomach roils in hatred. _How dare he –_

"You _forget_ ,” Madison insists. “You have him on his knees and you forget what he _is._ Politically Alexander Hamilton is more than just a man. Push him too hard and he could ruin you with nothing but a pen and intent." Madison pauses, lowers his voice, until it’s just barely on the edges of Burr’s perception. “But _sway_ him… win him…”

“You want me to woo the boy,” Jefferson asks, incredulous. There’s a short silence. Burr can imagine Madison giving Jefferson one of his level stares. Then Jefferson says – what passes for quietly, with Jefferson – “It’s not exactly like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

Burr frowns, with the feeling that he’s missing something. He leans forward, wishing he could peer through the keyhole and catch a glimpse of them at the table. See Jefferson’s face, maybe. _Not exactly like what?_

“Alright, I’ll admit it, you’re not _wrong,”_ Jefferson says. Burr cranes his neck at the crick of the door and manages to make out the shape of his dark curls. “But if I – “

A series of sounds at the end of the hall makes Burr straighten and look nervously over his shoulder. Lord knows when the servants might come in with wine. If he’s caught listening – hastily, Burr tugs his jacket into place and takes a few soundless steps down the hall in the direction of the wash closet. Deep breath. He schools his face into bored, dispassionate lines, straightens his shoulders. Then he walks carefully – _loudly_ – back to the dining room. When he opens the door Jefferson is watching it, the Virginians sitting in silence over slowly cooling duck. Jefferson’s eyes are thoughtful, his eyebrows knitted. Madison is looking away, considering a painting on the wall. His face, as always, is blank.

“Gentlemen,” Burr says, calmly, taking his seat back at the table. “You were saying?”

“Right,” Jefferson coughs, sitting abruptly upright in his chair like he’s just realized he’d been slouching. “France.”

If Burr is certain of anything, it’s that none of them were thinking of France.

***

“Burr,” Madison says, gesturing Burr into the chair next to him. Burr slides into it. Most of the other delegates are in their seats already, settling in with a vast susurrus of sound like a flock of birds. The balconies are full. Only the president’s dais is empty, waiting for Washington.

“Have you heard anything yet?” Burr asks.

Madison shakes his head. “Thomas isn’t speaking to me.”

Burr sends him a sharp look, but Madison’s face – as always – is inscrutable. If there’s a hint of worry in his brow, Burr can’t say for sure. “He’s still planning to speak.”

“Of course he is.” Madison shoots Burr a glance as well. Burr has the distinct impression that they’re both biding time, waiting for an opening. It’s not an entirely pleasant feeling, but Burr settles back in his chair and lets it wash over him. They can sit here, hating each other and making small talk, waiting for an opening to tear each other’s throats out. Like civilized men.

“He is… somewhat dedicated… to his principles.” Madison adds, finally. “Many people admire that about him.”

A subtle dig at Burr, no doubt – _if you stand for nothing_ – but there isn’t time to respond.

Washington steps through one of the doors in the back of the room and strides towards the small raised dais through the lines of chairs. He’s alone; unattended by aides or clerks. He walks like a soldier; eyes up, shoulders back, chin high. In the wake of his passing, people fall silent. Madison sits a little straighter. The hush that falls reminds Burr strongly of church. He watches the other delegates as Washington takes the lone chair on the dais, settling into it like a king on his throne. Some of the faces are nervous. Some of them are expectant. Washington takes them all in, once he’s seated; scanning over Jefferson at the opposition table and settling on Hamilton. Hamilton’s got a small table in front of him; covered in the papers that seem to cling perpetually to his body. They’re covered in Hamilton’s cramped, hurried handwriting. Burr watches as Hamilton, head bowed, shuffles them back and forth. He hasn’t looked up. He doesn’t see Washington watching him. Burr licks his lips.

Washington rubs a hand over his mouth, and his eyes on Hamilton are cold and considering. It makes the hairs on the back of Burr’s neck raise: Washington looks like he’s measuring Hamilton for a noose. When his hand drops from his face his expression is completely blank, and Burr recognizes it for what it is. The cool, smooth façade of control. Beside Burr, Madison shifts awkwardly in his chair. He brings out a handkerchief and coughs into it, startling and harsh in the silence. A few of the Federalists twist in their chairs, scowling.

Burr stares back at them. The Federalists think they’re a bunch of cartoon villains: Jefferson, Madison. Burr. The delegate from Maryland, John Henry, makes eye contact just to glare. One of Hamilton’s disciples; his natural hair pulled back in a thick dark ponytail, emulating Hamilton’s style. Burr smiles, knowing it will unnerve him, and Henry’s glare gets deeper.

They don’t see the longer game, of course. The Federalists hold Hamilton on their shoulders and despise Burr like it’s a natural consequence of that. _Defeated Philip Schuyler… sold Hamilton to the Virginians…_ Burr spreads his fingers wide over his thighs, stretches them out and curls them back into fists. _And meanwhile, of course, they drive him into the ground clamouring for more. More Federalist papers, more Thoughts, more pamphlets and legislation and magic with the financial system._ There’s a deep curling disgust in Burr’s stomach.

_If they could see him – their **hero,** Alexander Hamilton, passed out asleep on his desk with his fingers rubbed raw and bruises so deep under his eyes he looks like he’s dead – If they were the ones to pick him up, carry him to bed, whisper to Eliza not to wake him because god knows if he will ever sleep again –_

They would be doing what Burr’s doing. Sitting with the Republicans. Waiting for a chance to cut the tendons of Hamilton’s enemies, instead of pushing Hamilton to out-pace them.

Henry makes a soft, quiet sound of frustration, and turns back to face the President.

“You’re not making friends among your former colleagues,” Madison says dryly.

“They’re still my colleagues,” Burr responds, perfectly innocuous.

Washington is looking over the stands now. He catches Burr out almost immediately. Burr tries not to let himself stiffen. Washington’s jaw moves, like a muscle is tensing, but the eye contact between them is quick and vicious as a cold snap. Washington pauses for a second, and moves on. Not quite a declaration of war; but Burr wasn’t expecting one. _Washington would win,_ Burr admits, to himself. _If it came to that. If he thought I was a serious threat._ The only reason he hasn’t been neutralized is that Washington doesn’t believe Burr has anything to back up that one, reckless promise. _If you do it again I will know…_

Madison hums thoughtfully as the President finally attends to the papers on his desk, and Burr can feel the skin of his face prickle as Madison gives him an interested look. Washington’s attention might slip past the rest of the room, but Madison’s caught it.

 _Doesn’t matter._ Underneath the seat, Burr’s hand finds his IT band again. He forces himself to breathe, slow and steady. Internally, he’s baring his teeth, although he keeps that to himself. _Of course, I had to set my sights on the one man in the Union who’s practically an election issue all to himself._

_It’s not a matter of can._

Washington raises one hand and the entire room falls silent on the strength of his personality alone. _No wonder Hamilton’s his creature,_ Burr thinks, watching Hamilton’s head jerk up. Hamilton’s eyes are fixed on Washington like no one else in the room exists. _If I wanted what Hamilton wants, no one else would compare._

Then, with quiet and self-aware amusement – _Hamilton will have to reconsider, because I intend to compare quite favourably._

_My ropes versus the hand on the back of his neck…_

“The issue on the table is France’s war with England,” Washington says. His words are efficient and simple without seeming rushed. “We have been asked to provide aid and troops. I don’t need to remind any of you of the treaty we signed: or France’s current political state. The final decision is mine, but in the interests of transparency, I want this debate to occur before all of Congress. Secretary Jefferson – “ Jefferson nods in acknowledgement – “State is your department. You may speak first.”

Jefferson steps forward and bows to Washington. There’s no twirl of his cape, no showboating. When he turns to face the rest of Congress, his face is serious. It doesn’t suit him as much as his wolf’s smile: he looks graver than a funeral. Burr licks his lips, watching intently. This isn’t the Jefferson that he saw in the bar – this isn’t the Jefferson holding court over the dinner table like the _ancien regime._ He looks focused and deadly. Beside Burr, Madison is nodding in agreement to some invisible information: like he’s seen this before, and he knows where it ends. Something cool drops into Burr’s stomach, and he glances at Hamilton.

Hamilton’s face is white. His eyes on Jefferson are huge and dark. As Burr watches, he glances nervously at Washington, then back down at the papers in his hands.

_What?_

“We didn’t win the war alone,” Jefferson says. There’s a cold shard of anger behind his voice. _Washington will already have decided,_ Burr remembers him saying. There was bitter humour there. It’s hatred here. “France provided guns and ships when we faltered. Don’t lie to yourselves: if it weren’t for France, we would have lost. That isn’t an argument. It’s a fact.”

Hamilton shifts again. It calls Jefferson’s attention. He turns from Congress to Hamilton, and addresses him like they’re alone in the room. Standing braced in front of Washington, facing off against each other, the difference in their heights seems staggering. Jefferson is a wall; a force of nature. There’s cruel anger in the set of his shoulders, and he levels an accusatory finger at Hamilton.

“You don’t want to talk about this,” he accuses. “You want to ignore the fact that they are fighting the same war we were. That when it was _our_ men in danger, _our_ blood being spilled, _they_ stepped in. You warn us about the cost? This isn’t _about_ money! If they had thought like _you,_ Alexander, we’d be dead.” Hamilton opens his mouth but Jefferson cuts him off viciously. “You can’t buy station and you can’t buy nobility at a tailor’s shop.” Hamilton pales again, impossibly, and Burr can see his hands shake before he steadies them on the table. Jefferson’s lip curls as he turns back to Congress. “Hamilton would have you believe that the most important thing about this nation is how much money is in _his_ banks – I’m telling you now that if we sacrifice our belief in freedom to our desire to be secure, we might as well go back to King George. We said we stood for something. We said we _believed_ in something. Well, gentlemen – I agree with Hamilton!” He spreads his arms. “He doesn’t want to talk about this? Neither do I! Now’s the time to _stop_ talking. Let’s show the world we _meant_ what we wrote. Freedom for America! Freedom for France!”

There isn’t outright applause but a murmur goes through the assembly like wind through wheat and Burr can feel it stirring. Washington, on his throne, shifts his weight. His eyes slide to Hamilton, and his face is expectant. _That’s it,_ Burr thinks, inhaling sharply with the realization. _Jefferson’s wrong. This wasn’t Hamilton convincing Washington at all._ It’s Washington that doesn’t want this war: Hamilton’s job is convincing Congress to support the choice Washington has already made. Burr feels a cynical smile draw his face tight. Of course. Washington knows that the Union can’t support a fighting force in Europe: can’t spare the money to put guns in French hands. Washington will have weighed the risks of supporting a regime that no one is sure will last the decade: he’ll have tallied Robespierre’s casualties in his head. But he can’t outright say that. He can’t abandon the ideals that put him in charge without opening himself to criticism.

 _Unless_ he can somehow get the nation on the side of isolation first: make it seem like he’s following popular opinion. Unless Washington can make it seem like he seriously debated getting involved. Not for the first time, Burr admires the neatness of Washington’s mind: how everything fits perfectly into its place. Use Hamilton’s skill to establish the opinion of his choice in the public mind, then make it seem like he’s following the will of the nation.

 _And Hamilton will take the fall if it fails._ Burr inhales, exhales. Watches Hamilton straighten his shoulders and step out on the debating floor to meet Jefferson. He still seems small; the slender line of his back dwarfed by Jefferson’s height. _They’ll crucify Hamilton and never suspect Washington’s hand at all._

On his throne, Washington smiles down at his favourite son.

“Is that what you think?” Hamilton asks, cutting across Burr’s thoughts. “You want to demonstrate how much you love this nation by sending it to its death?” Unlike the rest of him, his voice isn’t small. The instant he opens his mouth, the playing field is levelled. The room snaps to attention.

 _Alexander Hamilton,_ Burr thinks, fondly. _They’re right to be scared of him, the Virginians. Washington’s right to think he can do this._

“We fought for freedom – _our_ freedom! You may not understand finances, Jefferson, but let me state it for you plainly – if we go to war in France, we _will_ lose our independence. Two years of war in Europe and we’ll be so beggared we might as well sign away our land and credit now. And for what? Honour? _Loyalty?_ We signed a treaty with a king, and they _killed_ him. They haven’t even replaced him. They aren’t fighting for freedom – they’re falling into anarchy.”

“The people of France – “

“Have called for democracy, right! And who have they selected to lead them?” Hamilton throws up his hands. “If you can name their commander as of this moment, Jefferson, and you’re actually _correct_ , I’ll rescind my position.”

Jefferson stares at him in furious silence. He’s not foolish enough to throw in a name; each letter from France updates the political roster with new names, new parties, new organizations. If Jefferson claims definitively for a candidate, and he’s wrong, it’ll lose him more than just this argument. He’ll look incompetent.

 _Clever,_ Burr thinks at Hamilton. He wishes he could applaud, but he’s sitting in the wrong camp for that. Jefferson nearly snarls in rage. The room shifts and whispers again. The tide’s turned; Hamilton’s talked the nation around to his side. Jefferson is glaring at Hamilton, his expression murderous. He knows he’s lost.

“Enough,” Washington says, from his throne. There’s approval in the thin smile he gives Hamilton. “Thank you, Secretary. You’re correct. Draft a statement of neutrality.” Hamilton bows his head in acquiescence, and Washington stands. “Gentlemen,” he says to the room at large. Congress takes its feet in response, as if he is a king: as if it would be rude to remain seated when he stands. “We will adjourn. If you have further thoughts, address them to me. Otherwise, we stay out of France.”

There’s applause. Of course there’s applause. Fifteen minutes ago they might have booed him off the floor for deciding on neutrality, and now there’s applause.

 _No wonder Madison wants Jefferson to sway Hamilton,_ Burr thinks. As the members of Congress file out the doors, he watches Hamilton gather up his papers and head for a side door.

Then, with an unpleasant jolt, he watches Jefferson follow.

***

 _“Hamilton._ ” In the deserted side-hall Jefferson’s voice is a sharp slice through the air like a knife. Burr tucks himself hurriedly into an office, leaving the door open a crack. _Doing a lot of spying through keyholes,_ he thinks, with mild amusement. He’d be ashamed of himself, if he was a different man. Burr’s relatively aware of that; it just doesn’t matter. _So what if it’s humiliating? It gets the job done. Pride is a liability._ And, for that matter, pride is less interesting than what’s happening down the hall. Burr can see a sliver, through the doorway.

Hamilton turns to face Jefferson, his expression twisted and defiant. His face is white except for two spots of colour high on his cheekbones. It makes him look feverish; there’s a desperate glitter in his black eyes. _At least,_ Burr thinks, _he’s been sleeping;_ there aren’t bruises on his skin. His hands are steady.

“What?” Hamilton demands of Jefferson, voice sharp.

Jefferson snaps right back without missing a beat. “Is this what you want? Now, see, I knew you were trash, but I didn’t take you for a traitor.” He folds his arms over his chest, watching Hamilton with the air of a disappointed father. Burr can see that spike through Hamilton’s chest; it’s in the way Hamilton’s spine stiffens, drawing him up to his full height.

Not that that helps much, but at least he tries.

“I’m being practical,” he insists, practically spitting the words at Jefferson. “We can’t fight their war. Just because you hate me, you don’t have to oppose everything I – ” When he moves, bracing his feet like he’s about to take a blow, Jefferson sways with him. It’s almost perfect; like their movements are synchronized. There’s an echo of Hamilton’s chest in the line of Jefferson’s, like their bodies are pressing the negative space between them.

Burr is aware of a nauseous, warning twinge of nerves in his stomach.

“You think I’d advocate going to war in France because I _hate_ you?” Jefferson laughs in Hamilton’s face. His hands spread in an elegant, liquid gesture, and he bows himself half-forward in mockery. “Believe it or not, boy, the world does not turn around you.”

In comparison Hamilton looks like a tin soldier; his movements jerky and stiff as he stabs a finger in Jefferson’s chest. “You’ve made it _abundantly_ clear what you think of me,” Hamilton spits at him, “And you bring it in _there?_ You went after my clothes on the Congress floor after you’d – “

“Oh, _that’s_ what it is.” Jefferson takes a sharp step in, closing the distance between them. The niggling warning is getting louder in Burr’s back-brain. There’s almost nothing left between Hamilton and Jefferson, now. Hamilton’s chest is rising and falling rapidly like he’s been running marathons, and Burr can see something predatory in the way Jefferson looms over him.

Burr’s fingers curl around the doorframe, digging into the wood. _I could interfere,_ he thinks. _Would that be wise? Step in? Save him?_

 _Or is it worse that it doesn’t look like he wants saving –_ Hamilton’s lips part as he breathes, and he stares up at Jefferson with all the intense, crackling focus that he brought to the law courts. _Wait,_ Burr tells himself. _Watch._

Jefferson takes another step closer, and Hamilton takes a step back in response. They’re nearly at the wall of the corridor, and Hamilton must know it. His shoulders bunch up defensively around his ears. He glances down the way at the main hall, like an animal in a trap. Burr wonders if he’s thinking about making a break for it.

_Are you hoping someone will intervene? Or worried they will?_

“For a smart man, Alexander, you can be _remarkably_ stupid,” Jefferson tells Hamilton cordially. Hamilton opens his mouth like he’s got something to say, but Jefferson snaps his fingers under Hamilton’s nose before any words make it out. “Let’s be clear, shall we? You _enjoyed_ being fucked on my desk and you _enjoyed_ being humiliated.”

Hamilton slaps Jefferson’s hand away, furious. “ _No_ , I – “

But it leaves him open, and Jefferson catches his wrist. Burr watches the fabric of Hamilton’s jacket crush under Jefferson’s grip, and knows it must be tight. Must be bruising. “Washington might have pushed you into that room but there wasn’t a _damn_ thing that happened that you don’t dream about begging me to do again.”

Burr shuts his eyes. There’s silence from Hamilton. Burr knows what he must be feeling, now; the pound of his heart in his ears, the breathless anticipation as he stares up at Jefferson. _I’ve known from the beginning what Hamilton is,_ Burr reminds himself. His fingers dig a little harder into the doorframe. He can feel thick crescents of wood underneath his fingernails, splinters shoving up into his skin. _I knew. I knew._ He doesn’t blame Hamilton. _Black and the ropes and he chokes and he would give me anything –_

There’s a black obliterating anger in Burr’s head, viscous and acidic with jealousy. _Watch,_ he tells himself, making the word a flat command in his head. _You have to watch._ Some small, weak part of him cries – _but I can’t! I can’t possibly bear it! –_ and Burr cracks down on that so hard he thinks something snaps. _You have to. Watch what happens. You have a goal to work towards, Aaron Burr, one that will not be helped by cowardice._

He opens his eyes and watches steadily as Jefferson uses his grip on Hamilton’s wrist to pull Hamilton in to his body. Hamilton’s head snaps up and Jefferson leans down until his teeth are shoved close to Hamilton’s mouth. When he bares them in a snarl he looks like he might rip Hamilton’s throat out, like that, nothing but blood and heat between them. Hamilton’s head falls back another hair, stretching out the line of his neck.

 _Watch_ , Burr commands himself.

“But that’s you and me. It isn’t the Union. What happened today has _nothing_ to do with the fact that you belong on your knees.” Jefferson’s eyes are locked on Hamilton. They breathe in synch, their chests moving in perfect synchronicity. There’s a tremble in Hamilton’s free hand, and Jefferson’s eyes narrow. “What you did today on the Congress floor was _wrong._ It betrayed the morals of the nation, it betrayed France. You want to make this about you and me because you want me to take you over my knee for it?”

 _This is different,_ Burr thinks. He locks the jealousy and anger down somewhere inside him in a solid oak box. _Take that out later – for now, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that this isn’t Jefferson possessive and despising and fascinated._ Jefferson’s face is a mask of hatred, fury obvious in his ragged voice. Hamilton’s responding to it – _can’t help himself –_ but this isn’t dominance, for Jefferson.

 _Politics,_ Burr thinks, examining Jefferson. Remembering Madison saying, _he is somewhat dedicated._

 _Could this be something to break whatever it is that’s going on between them?_ As soon as he thinks it Burr is struck by a cynical amusement at his own inability to say it directly. _What’s going on between them, as if it isn’t obvious that Hamilton is helpless to his nature._

“I don’t play that game.” Jefferson shakes Hamilton by the wrist as punctuation, nearly pulling Hamilton off his feet. “I disagreed with you before. Now – you disgust me. I didn’t use what you are against you in that debate, Hamilton, because I’d rather _forget_ that I ever _condescended_ to let you serve me.” The last words spit from his lips like a curse, and he throws Hamilton’s hand hard away from him.

Hamilton stumbles, falling backwards. His fingers drift to his wrist, his eyes wide and fixed on Jefferson as Jefferson turns away. He’s not going to let Jefferson go. Burr sees it in his face. Hamilton sucks his lip in over his teeth and bites down, viciously, and Burr watches him gather his courage. Underneath Burr’s fingers something in the door-jam breaks, and there’s a sharp stab of pain as the splinters under his nails pierce his skin.

_Watch._

“Washington asked me to write a defence of neutrality,” Hamilton calls after Jefferson, strangely urgent. He can’t let Jefferson leave. Burr wants to curse him for it. “I don’t disbelieve it,” Hamilton adds, quick and defensive. “But I… he asked me to win. He needed me to.”

Jefferson stops, turns neatly on his heel to face Hamilton. “God forbid you ever disobey Daddy,” he sneers.

Hamilton’s spine stiffens. “He’s my commander.”

“And that’s all he’ll ever be,” Jefferson grins. It hits hard; Burr watches Hamilton flinch. But the words are easy, teasing even though they’re cruel. Jefferson eyes Hamilton consideringly.

 _He called you back,_ Burr thinks, in the dull red of hatred. _Yes, you know, don’t you?_

Hamilton’s powering on under Jefferson’s thoughtful eyes. His hands curl into fists. “If I thought the war was logistically feasible, Jefferson, I’d have told him no. But he’s right. We can’t afford this.” He’s justifying himself; seeking approval. Burr wonders if he can hear it. _Does Hamilton know that he’s already lost?_

There’s a flicker over Jefferson’s expression, and then he cocks his head slightly to the side. “Was that an apology, boy?”

Oh, Burr could rip Jefferson limb from limb with nothing but his bare hands. _How dare he. How dare he touch what’s mine._

Hamilton visibly recoils from the words, but not far enough to be running. He doesn’t want to run, after all. Not with his face flushed and his pupils blown, not with every line in his body straining after Jefferson. He tilted his head back, after all, at Jefferson’s hatred. Baring his throat.

“Take it however you like.”

“No.” Jefferson smiles, then. “Apologize properly, and I might even listen.”

_I can’t watch this._

“I’m not begging your forgiveness,” Hamilton says.

Jefferson reaches up, runs his fingernails down Hamilton’s jaw. Underneath the touch, Hamilton trembles. “I came very close to giving up on you today. If you want me to walk away now, by all means…”

 _I can’t watch this._ The doorjamb is creaking again, rough wood twisting and breaking under Burr’s grip. _I have to._

_How dare he –_

“I’m sorry.” Hamilton mutters, without a hint of contriteness.

“Terrible.”

“I’m _sorry._ ”

“You really are shit at this, aren’t you?” Jefferson smiles at Hamilton. “Say it again, Hamilton. Properly.”

“I’m sorry.” The words sound like they’re being ripped from Hamilton, like it physically pains him. “What more do you want, Jefferson?! I – “

“You’re sorry…?”

And Hamilton gets it. He inhales, and Burr can see pride and desire war on his face for a breathless moment, before Hamilton bows his head. He’s panting, now, unable to get enough air. It’s in the heave-and-shake of his shoulders. “Sir,” he gasps, desperate and self-hating. “I’m sorry. Sir.”

 _He doesn’t want it. He does._ Once again, Burr feels sick to his stomach. _Something in Hamilton desperately wants this, and he’s trying hard but he can’t fight it._ Jefferson steps forward, and Hamilton sways into him like the act of standing has become indescribably hard. One of Jefferson’s massive hands tangles in Hamilton’s hair. He pulls Hamilton back by it, stretching him out, forcing his back to curve down and down and down until Hamilton is taut as a bowstring.

Hamilton’s eyes are shut. He makes a soft sound as Jefferson lowers his head. Burr thinks he knows the exact moment Jefferson starts to bite, over Hamilton’s jugular, because the soft sound turns into a low, tortured moan.

 _Sway him,_ Madison said.

For the first time, Burr considers that Jefferson might actually have a chance at doing it.

And that’s when Jefferson looks up, and his eyes – it might be entirely by chance – lock on to the crack in the door where Burr is watching.

***

Burr thinks he’s made it out up until the exact second Jefferson’s hand descends on his shoulder and slams him around backwards against the wall. Burr hisses in a breath, starting to shove his chin up, but Jefferson’s over him in a heartbeat. He didn’t even make it out the back door of the office. Jefferson’s arm snaps up, forearm braced against Burr’s throat. If he leans on it, he’ll cut off Burr’s air. Burr can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his coat. Jefferson’s head lowers, his massive shaggy bulk of hair like a lion’s mane around his narrowed eyes.

He looks lethal. “Enjoyed that, did you?”

Burr lets his breathing go shallow so Jefferson isn’t actively choking him, and forces himself to relax. No good struggling now. No good trying to fight. Jefferson outweighs him by fifty pounds of what looks – and feels – like muscle, has a half-head of height on him. _And,_ Burr adds to himself, _at least a few friends in Congress._

There’re people going by in the main hallway a few steps from them. If Burr yells, someone would come running. Someone who _might_ or _might not_ take Jefferson’s side.

Someone who definitely _would_ speak to a scandal. Burr closes his eyes, holds them shut as he counts slowly to five. Then he opens them and looks calmly at Jefferson.

“Don’t worry,” Jefferson says. “I sent him away. You wouldn’t want him to know about your little _crush,_ would you?”

“Excuse me.” Burr’s proud his voice only comes out a little strained.

Jefferson’s eyes snap, black and vicious, and he lowers his head a little closer to Burr’s. Burr can smell his breath, now. Sweet and somehow overpowering, like cloves. Hamilton’s cologne clings to him, the faintest trace underneath Jefferson’s own smell. Burr wants to be sick.

_How dare he –_

“Now what were you doing, listening around the corner? Hm? Hoping you might learn something?”

Burr says nothing. He can feel the quick, strong thud of his heart in his chest. This isn’t like facing down Washington, but he can still feel the jittery burn of adrenaline and fear. He watches Jefferson, rather than speaking. Jefferson’s eyes glitter, his mouth draw tight and sharp into a slash through his face. His arm against Burr’s throat is bruisingly strong. He’s tense through his shoulders, the hand gripping Burr’s arm digging in until Burr can feel Jefferson’s fingers grind against his bones.

“I was just passing through,” Burr says, finally.

Jefferson laughs. “Try another one.”

“Fine. I was curious about the meeting –“

“Mm, and you always get _wet_ for politics.” There must be a flicker in Burr’s eyes because Jefferson grins, seeing a weakness. “Madison was right about you.”

Burr tries not to let himself stiffen. “Right about what?”

“It’s Hamilton, isn’t it?”

“What’s Hamilton?” With an effort, Burr keeps his voice level. It costs him. His skin is crawling with Jefferson’s proximity. Every breath he takes smells like that horrifying mix of Hamilton, choked in through the pressure of Jefferson’s arm across his throat. The heat of Jefferson’s body is matched against his like a mockery of intimacy.

 _Keep your hatred off your face,_ Burr thinks, desperately. _Do not let him know. If he sees, if you’re exposed, you will never be able to save Hamilton from him._ “Hamilton’s our opponent,” he says, quickly, trying to cover the fear he knows is trying to seep onto his face.

Jefferson grins. “Oops.” Then, with the spark of ingenious cruelty that’s so particular to Jefferson, he adds – “Don’t play dumb with me, Burr. I don’t know what your fascination is, but you’ve been obsessed with the man ever since you found out what he did to earn his precious banks.”

Burr refuses to respond to that. After a moment, Jefferson leers. He leans in, putting weight on Burr’s throat. It’s pressure in the wrong place; not deliberate asphyxiation, like Burr’s ropes on Hamilton, but an efficient and crude act of cruelty. Burr half-chokes, coughs, and jerks against Jefferson’s grip.

It might as well be iron.

“Did he _brag_ about it, then?” Jefferson’s mouth is almost at Burr’s ear, now, taunting. “Sweetheart. I’ll send him a card.” He leans in, even closer, and for a heartstopping moment-too-long, Burr can’t breathe at all. “But you know, don’t you? What he did for me.” He eases off just enough for Burr to get a breath, and it sucks in harsh and painful as if the air was laced with glass. Burr feels like a mouse in the paws of the cat. His head swims with lack of oxygen. Everything in him is screaming for escape – searching for plans in his head. He forces himself to hold still. _Wait. Watch. Plan._ Burr isn’t Hamilton, to gamble everything at the first sign of an opportunity.

He’s also not Hamilton, to enjoy this.

“God, he was sweet, Burr,” Jefferson murmurs, in Burr’s ear. “Have you seen him like that? Begging? His hair a mess, his eyes unfocused, so gone he can’t think about anything but getting off… You know, the best part of it is, it’s _him._ Anyone can be a hole to fuck, but Hamilton… there’s something wonderful about breaking _that,_ isn’t there?”

Burr swallows hatred so thick he thinks he’s going to choke on it. “Let me go,” he manages, strangled. It’s harder and harder to keep his thoughts straight in his head. _But Jefferson can’t know. Jefferson **can’t** know it’s_

And why does it pop up, in that moment, that same picture of Hamilton with his eyes wide in 1776? His hands braced on the table, his brow still quirked with the question – _what do you fall for –_

“And if I offered to let you take his place?” Jefferson whispers. “If you did a good enough job of it, maybe I’d never touch him again…”

Burr can’t help the shudder that runs through his body. This is disgusting. It’s foul. He’s going to have to shower afterwards for a week. _And besides –_ says the part of Burr that’s relentlessly practical, that never stops shoving his heart down into boxes and locking them tight – _Jefferson would use me until I was dry and then take Hamilton again anyways, just to spite us both._ “ _No_ ,” he snaps. He’s proud of the force he manages to get behind the word.

Jefferson blinks and, for the first time, backs off. Burr coughs and then takes the opportunity to glare, sucking down lungfuls of air while he can. He doesn’t trust Jefferson not to put pressure back on.

But something’s changing in Jefferson’s face. “You’re not _jealous,”_ he says, scanning Burr. “You’re _disgusted.”_

Burr feels a sick, hysterical desire to laugh. Of course it’s disgusting. Jefferson. Madison. Washington. God knows how many others, tearing Hamilton to shreds, demanding he give until he has nothing left in him. And god knows _this_ is disgusting, Jefferson’s body pressed against his in this sick parody of connection.

_And god knows it is disgusting that you get to touch him, that he wants you, when he should be mine and mine and mine –_

Jefferson is staring at Burr in bewilderment as he comes even more firmly behind his own false conclusion. “My god, you actually have a conscience in there.”

Internally Burr’s mind is stretched into a death’s-head grin. _Time to be ruthless. Time to be practical and flawless and untouchable._ Jefferson’s just handed him the excuse on a platter, after all. And Burr can deal with Jefferson thinking that the idea of Hamilton getting off is disgusting, if only because nothing could put him off the scent better than his own idea. Burr sends a quick thought in Hamilton’s direction – _I’m sorry –_ and swallows his pride.

“Yes,” he tells Jefferson shortly. “If we’re going to play politics, the _least_ we could do is keep our _cocks_ out of it. What Hamilton does is prostitution, and you’re no better for _encouraging_ him.” Burr know he sounds angry; he _is_ angry. If Jefferson misses _why,_ all the better for Burr. Jefferson smiles, letting Burr go. Burr straightens with what he hopes looks like affronted dignity, tugging his clothes into place.

“Why, Senator,” Jefferson says, “I do believe we’ll make a moral man of you yet.” He’s smiling now, looking at Burr with newfound admiration. He holds out his hand. _Dedicated to his principles,_ Madison said. And now he respects that in Burr. _If Jefferson trusts me,_ Burr thinks, _I am one step closer._

_The ends can justify the means. Hamilton will have to understand that._

Burr takes Jefferson’s hand, hoping that Hamilton won’t find out. He should know better, than to trust to luck.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short sort of teaser-chapter introducing Eliza and establishing the next big chapter.

1786 –

“Aaron?” Eliza pushes herself half-upwards in bed. She’s disheveled in the light of the open door, frowning, but seemingly clear-headed. She wasn’t asleep. She’s wearing a nightgown, slipping off her shoulder, the difference in colour between her skin and the fabric almost indistinguishable.

“Shh,” Burr responds, pitching his voice low. “He’s asleep.”

In his arms Hamilton stirs for a second with a noise of tired complaint. Eliza gathers the fabric of her gown around her chest and sits up the rest of the way, leaning over to light the candle at her bedside. “He wouldn’t thank you for this,” she tells Burr.

“Yes, I know.” He carries Hamilton to the bedside as Eliza pushes the sheets aside. “Do you know how many papers they’ve published now?”

“Fifty-eight,” Eliza answers, so fast that Burr thinks the number must be in the front of her mind. “John Jay’s out – he can’t take anymore. Alex said they’d be done by now.”

Burr lays Hamilton in bed. “I don’t think he’s finished.”

“Neither do I.”

They share a moment of silence over that, then Eliza reaches to draw the covers over Hamilton. He turns in his sleep with an undignified piggish grunt. Eliza and Burr exchange grins, although neither dares to laugh. The silence between them is comfortable. Burr finds himself looking at Eliza’s face, the familiar worry-lines around her eyes. He remembers her as a young girl: the second-fiddle of the Schuyler sisters. Anywhere else, Eliza would have dominated: with Angelica beside her, she sunk into the shadows. Burr’s lip twitches towards a fond smile, remembering. _The Schuyler Sisters_. Angelica, brilliant and sharp as a diamond, and Eliza beside her in pale rose silk, her hair twisted into a thousand intricate braids like a halo around her head. The sweet sun behind Angelica’s storm front.

Age hasn’t been exactly kind to her, but the damage suits her. There’s steel revealed in her now, like the softness of her face has started to crumble and show the hard framework within. She looks more like her sister: Angelica’s hardness settling in to her eyes. She looks like she’s lived the decade since the war as hard as her husband.

It makes something in Burr ache, for what Hamilton’s doing. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching Hamilton’s dark hair sprawl across the pillow. Angelica and Hamilton were always the same; forces of nature, both of them. Their eyes on the horizon, their trampling feet entirely unconcerned with the little people in their path. Eliza’s staring at him: Burr looks up and meets her eyes. She’s learning to carry herself braced, now, steeled for what she has to endure. Burr knows it’s Hamilton’s fault, but he can’t bring himself to lay blame. Hamilton doesn’t mean to be cruel: he simply can’t see.

“Is something wrong, Aaron?” Eliza asks.

Burr sucks his lip in over his teeth. _We were at the same party,_ he thinks, as Hamilton turns restlessly under the blankets, _that night. I wanted a Schuyler sister as much as Hamilton did._ Maybe if he’d run into Eliza before Angelica handed her to Hamilton things would have been different. Was there a moment where Eliza’s eye could have landed on someone else?

“No,” he says. “Nothing.”

He might never have loved her, but Burr thinks maybe he might have understood her. More than Hamilton has. At the very least, Burr is a smaller man than Hamilton is. She would never have to worry about being crushed beneath his feet.

Burr sighs. There are bruises under Eliza’s eyes to match her husbands, a tremor in her delicate hands. “How long has it been since _you’ve_ slept?” Burr asks, as a way of changing the conversation.

Eliza smiles at him. “You’re very kind,” she responds, with the blankness of practiced words. “You’re right. I worry.” A pause, and then – as if it means nothing – “Was he – was he alone, when you…?”

There’s a whole world in that question. “He was alone,” Burr says, gently.

Eliza nods then takes a deep breath, gathering herself together. “Thank you for bringing him upstairs,” she tells Burr. Composed. Her public façade back in place, her eyes clean of any trace of emotion.

Burr shares a cynical half-smile with her, acknowledging what she’s doing. “I’ll see myself out,” he tells her.

***

Step Three

***

1790 –

“Alexander.”

Hamilton raises his head from the papers in front of him and blinks, focusing his eyes. “Eliza?”

She steps forward past the doorway, carrying her candle shielded with one hand. The light shines through it, showing the delicate creases of her wrinkles and veins. Her dress rustles like whispers around her ankles. “You’re still here,” she says, unnecessarily. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes – no,” Hamilton admits. He sighs, leaning forward to rub his hands over his eyes. They ache. There’s a gritty feeling between his teeth, and his mouth tastes sour. He can’t remember the last time he felt this tired –

_Oh, yes, you can._

_Please sir._

Hamilton bites a sharp shred off the end of his tongue and drags his hands away from his face. “What is it?”

Eliza draws a piece of paper from her bodice, crossing the table to him. She knows him well enough now that she doesn’t try to talk yet: just hands it over. Hamilton takes it. It’s a moment before he recognizes the script: elegant, extravagant, flowing. _My dearest Eliza,_ it starts.

Hamilton doesn’t quite throw it down on the table, but it takes an effort to restrain himself. He glances up at his wife. Now that he’s looking, he sees the frown creased into her brow. “Why is Jefferson writing to you?”

Eliza sighs, turning away from Hamilton to adjust the fall of the curtains at the window. “Reminding us of the ball tonight,” she says, “We’re invited, and we said we’d go. You forgot, right?” She’s hiding her face.

Hamilton frowns at the back of her head. “Is something wrong?”

“Other than you hating the man, and him writing to me instead of you?” Her tone is light, but Hamilton isn’t fooled. He watches as she sways across the floor, folding herself elegantly into the armchair by the fireplace. When Eliza sets her hands in her lap and finally turns her face back to him, she’s smiling slightly; sweet and composed. “Alexander.” Chiding. “I would never.”

It makes Hamilton grin, although he manages to stop himself just short of laughing. “Well, you _would_ make an excellent dishonest wife.”

“Thank you, Alexander.” Eliza’s composure doesn’t fall an inch, although she’s starting to lose her fight with the smile that’s curving her lips. She raises her eyebrows, the picture of innocent civility. “But Jefferson isn’t quite my taste.”

“Jefferson’s _tall –_ “ Hamilton starts, uncertain of where he’ll finish.

“ _Hah._ Lucky for you I like my men short and fascinatingly unable to come to my bed.”

Hamilton laughs. Eliza smiles at him, settling back into her chair. The room seems to get a little bit warmer; grow a little bit smaller, cozy and comfortable around her. “What is it this time?” she asks, nodding towards the papers on the desk.

“Nothing. Congress. France.” Hamilton sighs. “ _Washington_.”

He may not have told her everything about Jefferson and Madison, but Eliza is the one person in the world who probably understands everything that’s in Washington’s name. When he says it, she goes a little still; like a deer, caught by cracking wood in the forest. Then her head tilts to one side. It brushes a lock of hair over her shoulder and Hamilton watches the candlelight play on it. Her hands are tense in her lap.

“What does he want from you this time?” She asks, carefully.

“To hold us together, more than anything. Jefferson’s splitting us into factions. I’m – “ Hamilton grasps for a word, loses it, and tries again, “Eliza – “ He can’t go to the ball tonight. He can’t leave this desk for an instant. He has to finish, or Washington –

“You married _me,”_ Eliza interrupts fiercely, rising from her chair. “ _Not_ Washington. And it’s nearly past dinner. I’m sure he can spare you to attend a ball we promised we’d go to months ago.”

 _He wouldn’t have had me,_ Hamilton thinks, half-bitter. Eliza comes around the desk and holds out a hand. When he takes it, she draws him up out of his chair.

“I’m in no state to go anywhere tonight,” Hamilton tells her, as he stands: honest as he couldn’t be with anyone else.

“I’d understand, if that were the case. But I’d like it if you came anyways. You haven’t danced with me all year.” Eliza tucks herself into Hamilton’s chest, and his arms curve around her on reflex. His chin rests gently on her hair. He’s taller than her – Hamilton’s not taller than many people, but everything about Eliza is small. Her fine bones, the elegant curve of her waist, the softness of her voice. People underestimate Eliza because she’s small, Hamilton thinks, missing the strength it conceals. He pulls back, wanting to look at her face. Eliza smiles, closed-mouthed, up at him. She’s worried. And she’s right. He owes her a hundred dances, since before the financial plan sat languishing in Congress. Hamilton traces the curve of Eliza’s cheek with the back of two fingers, suddenly melancholy for the young and thoughtless girl he’d married.

_Would you – if you’d known – would you still have –_

But he can’t say that, so instead he says, “I don’t appreciate you enough.”

Eliza smiles. “Yes, I know.” They stand for a moment in silence, then she ducks her head. “Shall we?” Polite. Soft. Hamilton frowns.

“You said it was only near dinner. Jefferson’s parties don’t start until – “ Then Hamilton catches the wicked look hidden by Eliza’s downturned face. “ _Oh._ ”

“Yes,” she replies, “ _Oh._ ” And drags him to the bedroom.

***

Many women would have been dismayed, in Eliza’s position. When they found him in the third week of their marriage with another man, they’d have screamed. They’d have accused him (rightly) of infidelity or (wrongly) of lying, of marrying only to save social face.

Eliza Schuyler was not most women.

She’d laughed until she’d nearly been sick, told him twice that he’d have to give her pointers on specific aspects of handling _depth,_ and arranged a compromise to suit them both. Namely that Alexander had lovers (male, multiple), and a wife (female, singular). That, they could both live with.

And, to tell the truth, they weren’t badly matched by any measure of the phrase.

By the time they hit the second floor landing Eliza’s chest is already rising and falling faster, her cream skin mesmerizing above the pale blue fabric of her dress. Hamilton uses her grip on his hand to pull her in, and presses his mouth down to the curve of her breast.

“Alexander,” she says, warningly, and when he nips at her with his teeth, laughing – “ _Alexander!_ ”

“Mm,” Hamilton replies, non-committedly. He presses one of his arms around the small of her back, holding her to him, and pulls the skin of her chest into his mouth. She makes a soft, helpless sound as he drags his teeth over it again. All the tension in her body seems to slough off at once, leaving her pliable to his touch. _Perfect surrender._ No lover he’s ever had has done this as well; given themselves over to him with abject, trusting abandon.

Hamilton raises his head. Eliza is smiling, lips parted, her hair falling in wire-thick strands over her face. “Not on the landing,” she chides him.

Hamilton grins widely. “Wherever I want.” He lets go of her hand to tug her bodice down, exposing more skin, and bends his head back to it.

“Not if I – _oh –_ Alexander, stop!” She’s laughing. She cards one hand through his loose hair and uses it to tug him back up. “Your son and his nursemaid are still in the house.”

“He’ll have to learn the facts of life one day.”

Eliza groans. “God forbid he learn them _anything_ like you did.”

Lacking a response to this, Hamilton sweeps her up into his arms instead. She yelps, clinging to his neck. “Alexander!” Barely audible through her laughter.

“Stop me.” Hamilton kicks the door shut behind them and throws her bodily on the bed, clambering up after her. Eliza shoves herself backwards, drawing him forward with eager hands. Her skirts ruck up around her knees, showing the slender white line of her stockings. Hamilton runs a hand up her thigh, the warm smooth skin soft under his touch. She makes another soft sound as he places his palm flat between her legs. He puts pressure on the base of his hand, rolling it hard over her clit. Eliza’s hips shudder and move, canting her against his hand. She exhales. One of her thighs presses up between his legs, a firm pressure where his cock is trapped against his trousers, and Hamilton nearly groans aloud. He bites it back, leaning his weight on one hand by her shoulder so he can watch her face. Eliza’s eyes are shut, her mouth slightly open, her breath ragged as she sighs.

 _Beautiful,_ Hamilton thinks. He moves his hand enough to slide his thumb down, feeling his finger slip against the slick wetness between her legs. When he strokes her clit her whole body shudders, and she makes a sound like a mewling cat. “My dearest Eliza,” Hamilton teases, “Did you miss me so awfully?”

And he pulls his fingers away.

Eliza’s eyes open with helpless reproach. Her hands find the front of his coat and twist into fists, pulling at him.

Hamilton refuses to let himself be pulled. Past the arousal hot in his stomach there’s a warm twist of fond affection and humour. “Forgive me for neglecting my duties to my wife,” he continues, in the same light tone of voice. He traces circles on the skin of her inner thigh. “But I think I’ve forgotten how exactly I – “

“Oh, Alexander, don’t,” Eliza moans. She pulls more insistently, and Hamilton laughs. He lets himself be drawn forward until his body is fit over hers, losing his balance and having to draw his hand from between her thighs to catch himself. It doesn’t matter. Eliza’s moving to match him – shoving a leg underneath his body so she can draw him down between her thighs. She arches her back, pressing up into him on her exhale, and he can smell the salt of her sweat on her skin. “Don’t. Just - ”

“Just…? This?” Hamilton leans down to suck and bite a line up the exposed tendon of Eliza’s neck and her head falls backwards, skull pressed tight against the pillows, throat drawn out for his teeth.

“Yes,” she moans, and he rolls his hips forward, rocking the hard line of his cock against the hot wet arousal between her legs.

“This?”

 _“Yes.”_ And then her hands are at his belt buckle. She fumbles it open, manages to get his trousers halfway down his knees. Hamilton pulls back to get them off the rest of the way and throw them to the side. He’s still wearing his shirt, he realizes, and that goes up over his head and away like the rest of it.

Eliza, on the bed, looks somewhere between disheveled and flawless. Hamilton can’t tell. Her bodice is ripped down low on her chest, her skirts shoved up around her waist. She lies in a pool of sky-blue fabric like a cloud, her hair tangled in dark sheets around her head. Her pupils are blown, black eyes depthless. Her pink lips look swollen from where she’s been biting them and her hands, as she reaches out to him, are trembling.

“I love you,” Hamilton says, apropos nothing, simply because he has never had anyone else who would let him say it.

“I love you,” Eliza replies, desperately, “ _Alexander –“_ the best way, the _best_ way, she has of saying his name. Rushed, breathless, pleading.

“Yes,” Hamilton answers, quickly. He pushes her spread legs further apart with one hand, fits his body down against hers. “This?” He takes his cock in his hand, positioning it, rubbing his head slowly over her clit. Eliza moans and he goes to pull back again but she’s got a fistful of his hair.

He raises his head to meet her eyes and she is glaring at him. “Alexander Hamilton,” Eliza says, in a remarkably level tone of voice for how fast she’s panting, “If you don’t fuck me this instant – “

Then they’re both laughing, and he’s leaning down to kiss her, and it is sweet – it is so sweet – that Hamilton feels half-drunk. He’s missed her. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much, but it had been there all along – the ache, the loneliness.

“I love you,” Hamilton whispers again, against Eliza’s lips, half-thinking of all the horrors outside the door and half-disbelieving that he ever forgot he could come home to his wife. _Burr – Washington – Jefferson – not one of them would give half for me that she would –_ “Eliza –“

But she doesn’t respond, just whimpers, so he pushes inside her. She’s tight – so tight – so wet and warm and ready that for a second he has to still himself to stop from pitching over into absolute abandon. He presses soft kisses into her jaw and she moans, a nonsense syllable.

“Alexander,” she whispers, brokenly, “ _Please,”_ begging so sweetly that he gives her everything he has in him to give.

***

Hamilton adjusts the fold of his jacket for the hundredth time, and Eliza makes a face at him. _“Stop_ that.”

“It’s alright for you,” Hamilton shoots back bitterly. Eliza, of course, looks perfect: her hair twisted into a corona of braids, pale pink garnets at her throat (to suit the rose-blush of her cheeks) and an elegant gown in a desaturated mint silk that would come off as drab if it didn’t fit her like a second skin. She leans back into the carriage cushions, watching him with open amusement. Hamilton scowls at her. “Jefferson isn’t likely to call you a _skite_ –“

“Jefferson isn’t likely to call _you_ a skite, either, love, if you’d stop calling him a useless shit.” Eliza says, perfectly reasonably. Hamilton frowns. Eliza gives him a serene smile back, and Hamilton narrows his eyes pointedly.

“You’re no help,” he informs her.

“I’m going to have a lovely evening.”

Hamilton huffs, throwing himself against the cushions in an attempt to make himself more comfortable. It doesn’t work. “I’m certain Jefferson will write you a great letter about it afterwards, too,” he grumbles. Outside the sound of music is becoming faintly audible: they’re turning into Jefferson’s drive, rumbling over the wide even cobbles up to his doorway.

 _Where he will be waiting,_ Hamilton thinks, for the first time with a whisper of fear. He blinks it away, but Eliza says –

“If you’d pretend to be nice to him, he might write _you_ one instead.”

\- and there it is, leaping up into his throat. It’s like someone’s struck him on the inside of his trachea; Hamilton feels like he has to swallow past the hard-lump swelling of a bruise.

“Alexander?” Eliza says, distantly.

“Nothing,” Hamilton mumbles. He’d almost forgot. He’d honestly almost forgot.

_I’m going to see him and everything’s going to be –_

The way that it was. Hamilton sucks in a breath over his teeth and runs his tongue against his canine on the right side, using the sharp edge of the pain to calm himself down. He was fine a minute ago. _And I can manage this. I will not make an idiot of myself. I will not –_

Eliza reaches out and takes his hand. “Alexander,” she says. Hamilton blinks. When he focuses on her, she’s frowning. “Something.”

“It’s nothing, it’s – “ Hamilton swallows a half dozen lies, and ends with, “Jefferson.”

“He bothers you that much.” It’s not a question. “Shall we fall suddenly ill?”

They’re already in the drive, the carriage is already slowing, the lights from Jefferson’s porch are already brushing at the curtains beside Eliza’s face. Hamilton can see her lit by the glow of Jefferson’s front door, her soft face thrown in softer shadows. There’s a crease between her brows, and she’s rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. Un-deux-trois-quatre, and back, quatre-trois-deux-un.

Hamilton draws his hand from hers. “No.” _I can’t back down. I won’t._ “It’s fine. I just remembered something I wanted to speak to him about. About – “ _please sir_ “ – France.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! I've been swamped with work and school but I thought I should add something just to remind you guys that this is DEFINITELY still updating!!! Please leave a comment because they motivate me to keep going<3


	6. Fic Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this huge thing about why I'm abandoning this and AO3 dumped the entire fucking text, which was like six pages long and explained my entire reasoning behind how the story ends and why and how the dynamics took the shape they did, and took me two hours to write so I don't even give a fuck anymore. Fuck this goddamn story. No one gets to know how I was going to end it. I'm not writing another goddamn word of this. If you write your own ending and put a link to it in the comments I'll link it in the text of this chapter, because you guys were good to me and don't deserve how much of a never-ending shithole I want to be now that I'm frustrated, so at least you can have each other or whatever. I'm not responding to any more comments although I read and appreciate every single one.

Fuck AO3 tho, seriously.


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